


roots

by gleed



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Childhood Memories, Dreams, Friends to Lovers, Heavy symbolism, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, almost every character will make an appearance at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-02-06 09:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12814722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gleed/pseuds/gleed
Summary: Hanzo smiled, something that nearly bowled McCree away. Even as he itched for the cigar in his fingers, that he was yet to light, something about the way Hanzo maintained that smile felt like far more of a debilitating addiction.a mccree character study with elements of overwatch/blackwatch comparisons and some mchanzo





	1. Chapter 1

If there’s one thing McCree can assure himself, one thing he can swear on his life, sure as the sky is blue in American summer, it’s that he knows a good agent when he sees one. More specifically, McCree knows a good _Blackwatch_ agent when he sees one. Because – there’s a difference. There’s always been a difference.

Overwatch agents were fine – many, if not most of them, McCree was proud to call his comrades - but they were too much glamour and front page of TIMES magazine and too little _bang bang_. Call him a hypocrite, sure, by legal standards and technical terms he was – overall – an Overwatch agent, job description be damned. But it’s like what they say about squares and rectangles. Every Blackwatch agent is an Overwatch agent, not every Overwatch agent is a Blackwatch agent. Hell, half of Jack Morrison’s big blue gun party didn’t have _nearly_ enough of the guts it took to pull off even the first half hour of the average Blackwatch mission.

Afterall, being an iconic poster child of a glorified war isn’t exactly helpful when said Blackwatch mission is tying terrorists to chairs and pointing various guns at them until they’re spitting intel and blood into their own crotches at an equal rate. Overwatch missions are what you see on the news: crises averted by those glittering icons, the made for television boom of Reinhardt’s arching laugh, a modern day knight in shining navy armour amongst the vast stretches of rubble, backed by an angel in heaven’s white and orange, and a zipping streak of gunmetal light, like a flashlight being toggled on and off until the beam erupts with flashes of pulse pistol reports and impish laughter. It’s not conflict, it’s a violent show for the public.

McCree won’t deny it - there’s a charm to Overwatch, a wink and a nod and a kind hand on the shoulder of every child who dreams of growing up and saving the world. Blackwatch has just as much heart, just as much desire to do what is right and protect the innocent. But before the good can prevail, the bad need to be dealt with.

So, the difference? It’s style.

Now, another thing McCree would bet his best pack of cigars on is that any Overwatch agent – not mentioning or particularly targeting a particular Lena ‘Tracer’ Oxton, who seems to be able to run her snarky mouth just as fast as her feet – would disagree. The amount of times he’d heard Morrison call Blackwatch ops ‘clumsy massacres’ was just about as many as McCree had helped Reyes review a clumsy massacre led by Mr Ken Doll Super Soldier Edition himself.

The style that Blackwatch holds is one that is as lethal as it is discrete, and Overwatch could never dream to match it. It’s something that can only be procured by an unfortunate soul who’s known the sound of gunfire damn well since they popped out the womb. Super soldiers leading a taskforce that ended the omnic crisis, only to be downgraded to commander of covert ops because his bestfriend had a better face for a family friendly war machine; crackling red cyborgs fuelled by sheer anger and frustration, striking every obstacle as though it bore the sneering face of the crime syndicate that raised him into violence; and, of course, how can we forget, a cigar smokin’, hat totin’ son of a bitch who can snipe with a revolver and knock six men dead with a quick flourish of the hammer.

McCree tries not to spend too much time riding his high horse, but, quite frankly? He deserves a canter every now and then. Style is what makes a Blackwatch agent, and he can definitely confirm that he’s at least got _some_ of that – (however much a little Miss Fareeha may want to disagree. She ain’t no better though, she stole his hat and wore it like a shiny gold medal around base, afterall.)

It’s something he’s always been able to recognise, since Genji was wheeled into the medbay all scraps of meat and life support beeps. It had even been hard at first, countering that style, when Reyes assigned them as sparring partners, and McCree had his legs stolen from beneath him and rubber tipped shuriken bouncing off the pressure points of his training armour.

“So Blackwatch style is the ability to kill?” Genji had asked one stiff November morning, a mission in Russia under glaring street lights and billowing gusts of snow. Grinning, McCree had raised the edge of his flask to his lips and felt the fumes burn at his nostrils.

“Yup.” the clear liquor burnt on the way down.

“Hm. I suppose it must run in the family.”

Then it hadn’t meant much. Well, it meant as much as McCree had read in Genji’s file, and as much as the photographic evidence had made him vomit in the sink of Angela’s shiny white office. It meant those gruesome black and white impressions of Genji’s body splattered over old wood, a cruel contrast – blood and guts and flaps of skin and beautiful stretches of ancient, historic architecture.

And maybe that cruel contrast was still there, because on Hanzo Shimada’s first official mission with newly formed – newly illegal – Overwatch, McCree accompanied him through a series of atrocities that burned not so much with the stink of hot blood, but the perfect form and ruthless efficiency of an ex-assassin who looked to be carved from marble.

“Pretty hand with that bow.” McCree commented as an arrow whistled across the streets of King’s Row and knocked a Talon operative from their perch atop a condemned block of flats. Hanzo waited to hear the _thump_ of the corpse hitting the ground, and then the _slap_ of blood, before turning.

“Thank you.” he nodded, and gestured to Peacekeeper, safely nestled against McCree’s thigh. “I have been told you are quite the skilled marksman yourself.” he spoke low, as if he didn’t want to break the oppressive silence that the abandoned hotel corridors draped atop their broad shoulders. “Hopefully I will get to see it for myself?”

He stepped away from the arch he’d leaned in, a seemingly inappropriate design choice, which yawned, with no glass, onto the quaint cobble streets below. McCree wondered how many idle tenants had taken a misstep and almost fallen to a broken skull on concrete. The wind came in gentle waves. Rain pattered against the shiny lacquer of Hanzo’s Stormbow.

“Maybe.” McCree said eventually, before clapping Hanzo on the shoulder, “But hopefully it won’t come to that – I’m backup strictly for this mission, remember?”

“Really,” Hanzo slung his bow against his back, carefully toeing out once more onto the ledge, he turned, so his back faced the punishing wind. “It seems strange to me that just because you are listed as backup, a seasoned agent such as yourself is not allowed to shoot without first being given permission by a gorilla.”

The way Hanzo pushed himself from the window was scary, blood curdling in a way that McCree knew shouldn’t shake him, as he’s seen the man scale twenty foot walls in training. As if fearing that Hanzo didn’t know what he was doing – he definitely did – McCree rushed to peek over, and watch as Hanzo nimbly crawled to the ground, landing safely, and with a gentle series of _taps_ on the cobblestones.

“Ya really wanna see me shoot that bad, huh?” McCree grinned, calling down to where Hanzo looked up expectantly. He too, slid from the opening, but with a little less grace, and a little more clattering combat roll to avoid breaking his knees. When he stood he was uncomfortably damp with the grey rain water of London’s filthy streets. “And, also,” he brushed gravel from where it studded at his chaps, “he’s a scientist.”

Rolling his eyes, Hanzo tucked his hands into his pockets and made his way down the streets, not waiting for McCree to catch up.

“I simply think you are more than capable of thinking for yourself,” Hanzo clicked his tongue. “And, yes, my apologies, I will not correctly state Winston’s species again. I’d hate to be right.”

“Well, hey, he doesn’t go callin’ us Agent Human, does he?”

“A fair point.”

 

McCree didn’t want to think on whether it was still cruel contrast when Hanzo never got to see Peacekeeper’s barrel rattle with the sounds of a good old fashioned fight. They sat beside each other tired and wrung dry on the hanger, returning to Gibraltar - with Athena’s homely drone reciting altitude and temperature and humidity and all sorts of jumbled co-ordinates to Tracer, still somehow reeling with the thrill of the mission, in the cockpit – and he felt bad, so he un-holstered the one reliable thing in his world and let Hanzo look her down.

It felt good when he handled Peacekeeper with some kind of reverence, and even better when he gently returned it to McCree with the soft comment of,

“I can respect a man who cares for his weapon.”

Exhausted, McCree spent the rest of the flight disregarding spiels of _that’s Blackwatch style_ in his head, and trying to distract himself from the heat of Hanzo’s presence beside him.

 

Hanzo was like a phantom around base.

He appeared ritualistically each morning and evening to eat with the rest of the team, making hushed conversation with Genji, and graciously complimenting whoever had cooked that day. At breakfast he would drink either tea, grapefruit juice, or coffee, and didn’t seem to operate on any sort of rotary system – though McCree wouldn’t be surprised, the man seemed to function on clockwork – but rather seemed to decide based on how deep the wrinkle between his eyebrows was (it was always deepest when he wolfed down his black coffee in one.) And at dinner, he drank water only, although Genji told McCree that – if you were light-footed enough – you could catch Hanzo on some rooftop somewhere, drinking sake and smoking cigarettes, on nice evenings when the Gibraltar sun glinted off the sea like the blade of a searing orange knife.

McCree hated to feel hung up, he really did, but something about calm and collected Hanzo Shimada smoking away his black-coffee-morning worries in hidden spaces around base made his heart pound with upsetting familiarity.

The first time he caught Hanzo in the act, it was a balmy spring evening, and aromatic smoke rose from the roof of the practice range.

“Good evening, McCree.” Hanzo noticed him first, and watched McCree approached from over his shoulder. McCree sat beside him with a sigh.

“Nice evenin’ for it.” he gestured to the cigarette resting between the crook of Hanzo’s fingers, and pulled out his own scarred cigar tin. There used to be a sweet painting of an armadillo and a cactus on the front, but years of metal thumbs rubbing anxious circles into the lid dulled it to a muddy yellow, and the red font that read the brand name had been replaced with _cigarillos baratos_ scratched into the metal with numerous borrowed pen knives. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

“Only in the last ten years or so.” Hanzo said, and there was a weight to those words that McCree understood. When alcohol stars to pickle your liver, cigarettes are the next best step to forget in favour of indulgence. “But I’m particular about my brand.”

“Thought yours smelled kinda funky – “ McCree leant in and sniffed. Hanzo snorted and waved his cigarette high above his head. Milky coils of smoke cut through the pink evening sky. “What is that…cloves?”

“Good nose.” Hanzo sounded impressed, and watched intently as McCree lit his cigar and sucked it impatiently between his teeth. McCree almost felt bad, knowing that the thick pillows of grey smoke pooling in the indent of his lower lip smelt acrid and foul. But Hanzo did not comment, and McCree did not stop smoking.

When the sun finally dropped below the rosy horizon line, the last gust of the evening breeze lapped over them like warm water, and Hanzo sighed.

“You feel that?” Hanzo said quietly, and McCree turned to watch the end of his cigarette glow. Hanzo’s cheekbones were cast in orange. “There is a word for that kind of breeze that I have always loved.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” McCree grinned, his teeth grinding into the end of his cigar. Hanzo was smiling, and though he’d seen that before (mostly when sitting with Genji, occasionally after talking to the kind omnic – Zenyatta, was his name? – but then it was far more melancholy) it felt so much better now, in the slowly falling light of evening where it was only the two of them, blowing smoke out to where the stars would soon blink into life.

“ _Kaze hikaru_.” Hanzo continued, eyes still soft with the gust of some warm memory. “There is no direct English translation but it means something like…the promise of good things after a dark winter.”

A cold breath escaped McCree. He felt his throat shaking.

“I like that.” he replied, and took a deep drag of his cigar. “We have a word that’s…kinda like that.”

“Hmm?”

“Well, uh, now that I think about it they’re not that similar but…” McCree looked at his hands, before glancing carefully upwards to see Hanzo, sitting patiently, his eyes, too, trained on the cowboy’s mismatched palms. “ _Querencia._ It’s like…a special place, where you feel the most like yourself and have the most power. It really ain’t that similar I just…felt the sentiment was just as nice.”

“Hm,” Hanzo nodded, “I see.”

And the evening fell into silence.

 

McCree didn’t like to feel out of place – although he often was. In fact, he tried as often as possible to embrace the fact that he was a walking, talking anachronism. After all, when the masses of the world squint and scoff in passing it is easily curable by the twinkling eyes and enamoured gasps of children who’ve just seen a _real life cowboy_. It breaks his heart to see sweet little innocents gaping at a world renowned criminal, but as long as they’re not old enough to match a face to a wanted poster (he looked too white in those anyway) or figure out how to read trending articles on any news website either side of the equator, it gave him a little confidence.

Overwatch, however, in its newly reborn state of forcing its way through the cracks in the pavement of political outrage, did not have the ripest supply of children to give McCree any sense of self-worth. In fact, on the very date of June 4th, when he barely held himself up to stare in the communal showerroom mirror in a fit of 4 am self-loathing, Overwatch consisted of: a moon gorilla with social anxiety; a time-hopping ex-pilot; a pensioner the size of a minibus whose burning desire to fight for what’s right outweighs his likely need for a pacemaker; a serene omnic seemingly well-versed in all forms of philosophy, theology, and psychology; a cyborg ninja who’d been raised from the dead, and the punk ex-assassin brother who’d killed him. And, of course, the infamous Jesse McCree.

Not including himself, that was six members of a – now criminal – organisation, which had once boasted one of the largest worldwide armies of all time.

Six members who were, admittedly, all outrageous and gawk worthy in their own oddly inspiring ways, but still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed enough to make McCree feel like he belonged at the bottom of the fish barrel that was Overwatch’s current roster of recruits. Perhaps he’d always felt like that, in one way or another: being Reyes’s golden boy and exemplar Blackwatch agent from the age of eighteen to thirty, who – despite his raw talent and made-for-TV niche – never gave a single blink of his identity to the media after the New Mexico authorities were convinced of the notion that _every_ Deadlock member had been cleared up _for good_. Yes, photos of his fresh-faced youthful self were in history books, websites, videos all about the triumphant rise and miserable fall of Overwatch, but he wasn’t the named and glorified agent with a catchphrase and merchandise. He was another cog in the machine, an unimportant agent who appeared beside his commanders at official events to remind the world that Overwatch wasn’t just a fantasy joyride for people who wanted the world to be saved adventurously.

Reyes had told him to his face once, sitting in his office on November 1st, just the two of them drinking and singing and all painted up as _calaveras_ when protocol wouldn’t allow them to go celebrate _Dia de Muertos_ properly. The two of them had snuck what they could in: stacks of red candles, bottles of fine whiskeys and wine, a cheap model of _La Muerte_ that McCree had kept since his Deadlock days. There were steaming pans of freshly cooked _pan de muertos_ , plates of _fajitas_ and _enchiladas_ that glistened in the candlelight. Reyes set up his record player – an absolute relic from the 2010s, cherry red and still in peak condition – with old _Los Lobos_ tracks his _abuela_ had sent him in the mail, and the two of them drank and sang and ate for hours on end.

Perhaps they had cried a little too, but neither of them would admit it. It was hard not to feel emotional when Reyes had near enough converted his entire filing cabinet into an altar, fit to burst with gorgeous plumes of marigolds and plates of delicate sweets, fine bottles and strings of rosary beads. There were photos – people who _must_ have been relatives because they either had the same nose or the same eyes, or the same stern face the still somehow held such a youthful smile.

The waterworks hadn’t really started until Reyes wiped salsa from the corner of his lip and smiled, “You have any photos you want me to put up, _mijo_?”

McCree admitted that he didn’t. That he had nothing of his family before Deadlock. No pictures of his mother or father or sisters, no pictures of his friends or his pets, the ranch or the animals.

Reyes, tipsy on red, became shiny eyed swiftly, and held onto McCree – who tried _tried_ to stay solemn – and pointed softly at his chest and uttered,

“You know, you…you know, Jesse, I know you know that you are the bravest boy I’ve ever met. I am - _hic_ \- I am proud…to have you on my ranks and – and! You are not only…the bravest boy but one of the best agents I have ever – _hic -_ I have ever trained. Them - ?” he gestured, vaguely, to the walls, “They don’t know anything like you do. They know war sure but you know – _hic­ –_ you know _personal_ war and you know what it feels like to _remove yourself_ from personal war and make yourself a – _hic­ –_ a better person as a result.”

He had rambled on for perhaps an hour or so more, smearing the creamy black and white _calavera_ paint down McCree’s Sunday best in the process. The stains hadn’t washed out so easy, but he didn’t really mind. It made him think of how the boys who lived down the street from him would keep their overalls oily because they thought it made them look big and tough like their dad, the town mechanic, and also the man they wanted to be someday.

Rolling his neck, McCree felt all the bones in his back pop, before leaning forward, pressing his forehead to the cool tile just adjacent to the geometric planes of the mirror.

“You’re up early.”

McCree almost snapped his neck in response, whipping back not in shock at the sudden voice – Blackwatch rule number one, _vigilance_ – but the fact that Hanzo, who was standing shirtless and kneading at the waistband of his gym shorts, may have been watching him breakdown from across the showerroom for the past twenty minutes.

“Uhh, yeah.” McCree nodded, leaning his weight into wall again. He let his eyes flick anywhere but Hanzo’s face – the blue tiled walls of the showers, the bundle of a t-shirt and oversized hoodie under Hanzo’s arm, the way his tattoo curled and careened like a deluge of ink and magic over the sinewy valleys of his shoulder and across his –

“Yeah?”

Snap out of it.

“Yeah. Way too hot in my room and the, uh, the AC’s bust.” he kicked the floor absentmindedly, “It’s cooler in here.”

Hanzo nodded, and dumped his bundle into a wash basket. “I understand.” he began toeing off his boots – an odd combination considering the gym shorts and tubesocks, though McCree suspected Hanzo didn’t own any kind of footwear that wasn’t a boot, or atleast black leather – and placed the neatly beneath the protrusion of a sink. “I’m going to shower and then go for a jog around the cliffs. Would you like to join me when you’re done here?”

Swallowing, McCree forced himself to avert his eyes when Hanzo began fiddling with the shower tap and sliding out of his shorts. He could hear the rush of water hit skin. Something told him it was ice cold.

“Sure. I’d like that, bud.”

“Excellent.”


	2. Chapter 2

On the cliffs, the wind, despite early summer’s best efforts, blew bitter and cold as lemons or a lover scorned. The walk up had been pleasantly warm, not swamped with a disgusting syrupy heat like the Watchpoint had been, and not frigid like the cap of anti-freeze past its sell by date, as the cliffs were. McCree, in just his jeans and a blue gingham shirt, held his arms tight around him.

“How is this for cooler than your room?” Hanzo chuckled, slowing to a jog as he approached McCree. He stopped to pull at his tubesocks.

McCree had tried to jog with Hanzo, he really had, but as soon as that cold started whippin’ at his face something fierce he gave up. He’d been sitting on a pile of sandy rocks for a while, kicking at tough marram grass and watching the ocean toss and turn beneath the vista of a 4 am sky.

“It’s…fine.” McCree responded half-heartedly, watching as Hanzo diligently tied and retied his shoelaces. How this man ran in boots that thick he had no idea. “You really complete the whole cliff circuit in fifteen minutes?”

“Not all of it.” Hanzo’s brow furrowed as he pointed outward, towards a curving meander of cliffedges that were red and raw with the fresh absence of rock. “Landslide. Athena rerouted my regular run for me so that I could avoid the unsafe cliffsides.”

“Huh. Nice of her.”

“Indeed.”

Hanzo took a moment to wipe his brow, dragging the collar of his t-shirt uncaringly over the beads of sweat that had clustered at his temple. With that, he took another look at the bleeding cliff side, and then took a seat beside McCree, who continued to kick at marram grass and knock his knuckles against the rocks.

All was silent but for the _swish_ of the ocean beyond, before Hanzo rummaged in his shorts pockets, produced two slim cigarettes – and a stained yellow lighter – and offered one to McCree.

“I doubt you’re really awake because the air conditioning is broken.” he grumbled, watching McCree take the cigarette handlessly between his lips and roll it, experimentally, around with his tongue. Hanzo raised the lighter, “The Jesse McCree my brother told me oh-so-fond stories of could sleep through the heat of a forest fire if he so wanted to. Tell me, McCree, what’s on your mind?”

The last word left Hanzo’s pretty mouth as the cigarette lit up with the _click_ of the lighter. McCree watched the white-orange flare, listened for a comforting _sizzle_ , and then clenched his teeth around the butt. A wisp of pale grey smoke rose like a snake, charmed.

“Not cloves this time?”

“I don’t appreciate it when people avoid my questions.”

“Kinda tastes floral.”

Hanzo rummaged again, for a second, in his pocket, before producing his cigarette carton, and slapped it into McCree’s lap. The packaging was a pale violet and decorated with tiny illustrations of roses and lavender. It was a small, compact thing, far too pretty and well-kept for McCree’s liking, but, then again, his favourite type of cigar was the type to leave his mouth feeling like a tar pit.

On the corner of the box, written in biro, were a few small Japanese characters. The first two were the same, looking like two little pairs of arms, the third was a small box, and the fourth a long symbol which resembled a building with spiralling tree roots. McCree had been told once that some Asian scriptures could be read like pictograms, but he wasn’t so sure. He _especially_ wasn’t sure when he’d been told that by a Deadlock ex-compatriot with fewer teeth than years and a middle school level education.

He glanced properly at the box once more, and noticed a title, in cursive far too elegant for advertising a product that could kill you, that read _Fumée en Fleurs_.

“I’m completely unsurprised you smoke French cigarettes.”

“Hmm. I’m rather surprised you knew that was French.” Hanzo lit his own cigarette, smirking impishly at his own joke through his gritted teeth, “Now. As I said – stop avoiding my questions.”

Puffing once more, and wrapping his tongue around the pleasant flowery taste of Hanzo’s cigarettes, McCree clapped his metal hand down on his knee and laughed, mirthlessly,

“You’re tellin’ me you don’t ever just have… _those nights_?” he glanced at Hanzo, who, chewing his cigarette thoughtfully, nodded in response, “Because I’ve been havin’ ‘em a lot recently, and – _whoo!_ – lemme tell you, buddy, I have been losin’ more sleep than a bear in a warm winter.”

“No. I understand. I have _those nights_ as well.” Hanzo let the smoke escape through his teeth as he spoke. “I only thought perhaps you would wish to confide.”

McCree, in all his inability to open up to a cold wind or communicate with handsome men, fell silent, and the conversation felt tossed to the wind. It flew, somewhere, over the ocean, far away to whatever unfortunate son of a bitch would have to pick it up. Perhaps with an equally as gorgeous and intimidatingly desirable sort-of-friend.

“I could speculate.” Hanzo said eventually, “Although I have always been taught not to prejudge.”

The sun had just begun to peak over the horizon, looking like a slick slice of blood orange against a ruffled navy tablecloth. Speckled crumbs of bread were stars receding into the botched green hemming.

McCree did not respond, again, and Hanzo took this as incentive to talk on, again.

“Perhaps your apprehension is due to the nature of this new _Overwatch_.” Hanzo said cooly, dragging on his cigarette so softly at was as though he were caressing a lover. “You are once again dipping your toe into the stagnant pool of heroism in a new, dark age. There is, all at once, much nostalgia and much to come, and you are concerned that things will not be the way they used to be.”

Somewhere in the distance, the first sounds of life emerged. Except it was not the sweet melody of a bluebird to begin the morning chorus, but the flat caws of a mother seagull coming into land. She slapped her feet against the wet sand and drew her wings out like a great beast. The tide pulled in just so, and she, frightened, took to the air once again.

“Or perhaps I also attended a meeting where Winston spoke of new recruits, and an old friend who you’re sure isn’t proud of what you’ve done these past years is joining us.”

When Angela’s face had popped up on a holo-vid in Winston’s workshop – a shiny red _CONFIRMED_ pulsating beneath her pixelated visage – McCree had near enough thrown up his heart just to swallow it again. There was something about the pale planes of her face, the slight slant to her eyes that, in photographs and videos, made her look so much more like the no-nonsense scientist she was.

No-nonsense, perhaps, but a sister, as well. A sister that, upon sensing the tension that thickened the air and headspace of everyone near and dear to him, McCree had upped and left at the helm of disaster as Overwatch crumbled to a political laughing stock.

He wouldn’t blame her if she euthanized him the moment she stepped foot back in Gibraltar.

“You been hangin’ around with Zenyatta? Startin’ to sound like him.” McCree responded, aware that he was, much to Hanzo’s delight, _avoiding the question_.

“Spending time with Zenyatta is something I have found to be very valuable. His presence is calming and he is as knowledgeable as he is accepting. I think you would do well to listen to him more often.” Hanzo sounded as though he were running a short fuse now, although his hands remained loose and open in his lap, his cigarette hanging loosely from between his lips. “Besides. I don’t think you want to talk about Zenyatta. I think you want to talk about Doctor Ziegler.”

McCree paused before answering – _how much did Hanzo know?_

He decided anything that Hanzo knew about Angela was through Winston, and therefore either gushing praises of her technology or sob stories of her orphaned child genius self, forced to take labs and supply cupboards as her home for as long as she was determined to change the world of medicine.

“Angie was… _is_ very important to me.”

Nodding his head, Hanzo reached for his cigarette, “I assumed the two of you were,” he raised his eyebrows slightly, “ _close_.”

“Oh, well,” McCree, almost adversely, tucked his own cigarette pensively between his teeth, “I mean, yeah, Angie and I were close, and I loved her but not – “ he raised his eyebrows in a mirror of Hanzo’s drawn forehead and murmured, “ _like that_.”

Although they had tried to be. For a time.

It felt wrong in all sorts of ways not only because Angie was his _sister_ but because he knew every time somebody crooned over what a good couple they would be and how their babies would be beautiful the two of them were shrivelling up and hiding away in a dark, dark corner inside themselves. They had dated – six weeks tops – out of pity for a team that wanted so desperately for young love to bloom in the direst of circumstances, and feeling that they needed to find something to fill that pit. McCree found that he liked holding hands with her, but not because it was romantic, because Angie’s hands were soft and small and being close to her reminded him that he always _had_ someone.

But that someone was just a friend.

If he really stretched his memory, they kissed a total of four times. Once as an awkward show of affection and as their best efforts to try and _prove_ that there was something there, twice under mistletoe, and once more – lastly – drunk and sad and kicking their legs off the roof of the training arena.

Genji had been there, and had hooted and collapsed into laughter when Angela, clasping at her wine glass and McCree’s shoulders in vicious tandem blurted out,

“I like _girls_!” after breaking the kiss, and McCree had grinned and responded,

“Thank _God,_ because I like girls _and_ boys.”

Maybe if they’d forced it, it could have gone on for longer, (though Genji had been oh-so adamant that the two of them were better off friends) and they could have made all the adults and officials in their lives that much happier with their rosy-cheeked, shy handed puppy love. But every time they kissed it tasted like Angela’s sticky cherry-flavoured lip gloss and a landfill of regrets and fake love that longed to be real and bright and _platonic_.

“Nah.” McCree continued. “We were never…y’know.”

“I see.” Hanzo said, “…then why are you so concerned? If not scared to confront a lost lover?”

McCree let the question linger. He flicked his cigarette into the grass and squashed it with his heel. The sun’s rays began to peel the layers of night time away into golden morning.

“You ever been so scared you’ve let someone down that it feels like it could kill ya?”

Hanzo’s faced dropped just a hellish bit, and the pallid points of his cheeks somehow seemed icier.

“…You know this.”

“Yeah.” lolling his head, McCree made long, painful eye contact with Hanzo who, since, had become somewhat watery, “It’s a bitch, huh?”

“Yes.” Hanzo muttered. “A bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> いい味


	3. Chapter 3

McCree did not know what Hanzo and Genji’s father looked like.

Though he had seen their mother in photographs once (Genji had, somehow - amongst the blood and distortion of his almost-death, managed to salvage a holopad of childhood photographs - most of which showed the Lady Shimada’s soft, pale face; all red lipped smiles and knowing looks under heavily lined eyes. She was angular and beautiful and the spit image of Hanzo, although the mischievous glimmer in her eyes and pointy tip of her nose ghosted images of Genji on her geometric face.) McCree was yet to be graced, or otherwise, with any image of Shimada senior to even hint at the face of the father turned authoritarian by the hands of pushy elders.

(It was hard to find sympathy for the man that drove his sons to mortal combat, although McCree had heard many stories from Genji of how their father treated him so well and loved him so dearly. McCree wouldn’t be at all surprised if Shimada senior had planned his wife’s pregnancies meticulously, so that his first born would be groomed and polished and tinkered with until he was a cookie-cutter piece of crime syndicate perfection, whilst his second could laze with a silver spoon between his teeth and tongue, spooning the warm back of his father’s immense wealth to fuel his rebellious streak and put the colour in his hair.)

McCree, had, however, seen Shimada senior in a dream.

He was not unfamiliar with feverish dreams: spiels of horrific imagery and garish colouring that lasted for what felt like hours on end, reeling wildly like unfinished spools of Glitchbot’s latest psychological thriller spilling from the backend of a choked up camera centuries too late. He often dreamt of familiar faces, familiar skylines, familiar feelings, but chopped and changed and slashed and mutilated to the point where if he were to recognise even a motherly smile pointed his way – he would be impressed.

That _particular_ time, it was different.

He was sat in a restaurant, that much he knew, from the tinkle of cutlery and hush of warm voices not so far away, and the scent of garlic and spicy tomato and red meat in the air. The velour chair on which he sat was plush and cozy against his back, his feet firmly planted on the pleasant smooth of the hardwood floors.

Except there were no walls in this restaurant. In fact, there, at the time of McCree’s dream, had been no restaurant at all, but rather, the peculiar impression of one, where he, instead, sat at an intricate marble and mahogany embossed dining table in the empty, night-lit streets of strangely sleepy 2am Moscow. Dreams will be dreams, he had thought at first, but Hanzo had sat opposite him, and he’d wanted it to be real.

He remembered being decked to the nines where they sat in the slowly falling snow, not feeling the cold at all in their well-tailored suits and shiny Oxfords on their feet.

There, Hanzo had been, looking gorgeous even in his mind’s eye, sleek and slim and sinful in a form-fitting royal blue suit that hugged him the way McCree wished he was at most times. He wore a soft golden shirt, a similarly coloured tie tucked into his jacket colour and, seemingly, reflecting the mellow amber of the slowly travelling moon.

McCree himself had never felt better. He wished he could dress as well for Hanzo in waking life as in dreams, as, although the colours were somewhat outlandish, he looked rather fetching in the cherry red suit and powder blue button down. His own red tie was not tucked in like Hanzo’s, but hung loose and roguish around his neck as though he had found himself a little too hot under the collar where he and his dream date – in, funnily enough, both the literal and metaphorical state – sat glowing beneath a slightly blue street light.

“Well.” Hanzo spoke, and he had been speaking Russian, but, as he tended to be able to in dreams, McCree could understand every word, “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

It had not been to McCree’s knowledge that, within his dream, a sleek black rocking chair, large enough to account as a throne, had been set beside him at the dinner table, and a huge figure in dark, satin robes, was currently taking a seat with them.

The figure moved silently, followed by trails of smoke.

It wore a kabuki mask.

McCree did not know how he knew, but this was Hanzo’s father.

“ _Koibito?_ ” it droned, it’s tongue wrapping around a language that, McCree was distressed to find, he could not understand. The creature’s voice felt like thunder rumbling from beneath its white and red mask, rattling McCree’s bones. “ _Awarena_.”

Confused, McCree had looked back to Hanzo – or maybe, the dream version of Hanzo that lived in his head, that, whilst equally as dashing, couldn’t hold a candle to the real thing – but he simply smiled encouragingly across the table.

“Come on. Aren’t you going to fight back?”

McCree had woken before he’d felt the blow to his chest, but he’d seen it, and when the figure – that was _surely_ Hanzo’s father – had drawn its arm to punch, he had seen it had cloven hooves rather than hands.

There was a pack of aspirin on his bedside table. He took two dry, a skill he’d developed from living in a desert where frequent water shortages meant antidepressants had to be taken like choking back filthy thoughts, and absconded from his room to gossip of new, young, influential recruits, and – this he learned as he sat between Reinhardt and Genji at the breakfast table – Dr Ziegler’s flight had landed that morning, and she and Torbjörn would be rejoining the officially illegal Overwatch within the week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter because im getting back into writing. my goal for 2018 is to update this fic at least once a week. yell at me in the comments if i dont. and i mean it.


	4. Chapter 4

Since childhood, McCree had taken solace in rooftops.

It started young: six years old, knees skinned to a fleshy pinkness (although they would eventually harden into pale brown scars), and scrambling up the beams of his porch to lever himself onto the green tiled roof. It was huge, simply because ranch houses tended to be big – regardless of the money (or perhaps lack thereof) in the family – and seemed to offer him some kind of solace that sitting in the red dust of his front yard couldn’t offer him. He’d just get his overalls messy there anyway.

Later, at fourteen, it was the roof of _Big Earl’s_ , leaning against those giant display letters and flicking cigarette butts onto the scuffed concrete, watching the sky turn pink against sandstone and clusters of viridian succulents amongst the cracks in towering red walls. If you came at around midday, the concrete would be baking, and burn the palms of your hands and backs of your thighs like grilse on a barbecue, but late afternoon, when the sun was low enough to cast yellow shadows across the gorge, sitting up there was like a little slice of heaven.

McCree was unsurprised that he kissed his first girlfriend there. His first boyfriend too. Star spackled skies seemed to be the staple viewing extravaganza of _Big Earl’s’_ roof, and many a short lived tryst of McCree’s fleeting teenaged years had taken place up there. Whilst everyone at school knew the rumours of Jackie Lawrence and Preston Sanchez having had a short steamy session up there, very few were aware of _just_ how many dalliances McCree had snuck up behind the display board, engaging in messy kisses, refuge between sticky thighs, and scalps red from tugged hair and clumsy teeth.

He stopped going when Big Earl himself discovered that the thuds on his rooftop were not the ghosts of his estranged grandparents come to seek revenge for converting there lovely little desert café into a gas station (whilst that story was also well known at school, McCree was unsure if it was true) but in fact dazed, horny teenagers who may or may not have been under the influence of drugs, alcohol, and sunstroke. He didn’t gate off the steps at the back or anything, simply threatened that if he heard so much as a creak he’d be up with his rifle. Nobody needed telling twice, and although it was a taxing loss, the bike ride to Route 66 was half an hour too long anyway, and McCree still hadn’t saved enough (or begged his parents to take enough out of his _very_ hopeful college fund) to buy the motorbike he’d already passed his test for.

(He got what he needed when Deadlock reared their ugly faces, but he tended not to dwell on the greasy old cranker they’d peddled out to him when he agreed to join their oily, bald-faced ranks.)

For all the roofs of New Mexico, there was one in particular that McCree invested his sweetest memories in – and it was half way across the world.

Watchpoint: Gibraltar was - and, God bless, remains to be – riddled with stretches of perfectly flat, secret rooftop, hidden away between towering blocks of dormitories and training sims. Some of them were cast in long blue shadows, perfect for taking well-deserved naps in between sessions of training during the sweltering Spanish summer. One was barely any more than 8 square foot, situated between four inseparable cinder walls and only accessible through ventilation shafts – that one, McCree knew, was where Genji went to let off steam (which could often mean any number of things; from throwing himself against the walls until his wiring fizzed and McCree had to drag him to Moira to whack things back into place, or curling up like an animal and wailing into the silicone tubes that replaced over half the muscles in his body.)

The best roofs on the Watchpoint, however, where the ones that faced the ocean.

Surrounded every which way by endless expanses of glistening cyan waters, still and serene and like a knife’s edge glinting on the horizon; it felt like nothing could ever go wrong when he sat there and watched, smoking or drinking or simply letting the salty breeze curl past his ears. Even better, though, were the nights.

Summer nights specifically, which called for skies that remained light until almost gone eleven, and waves which undulated calmly, yet with a blackness so deep that they felt manufactured. They also called for alcohol: bottles and flasks and shot glasses dragged up stairs so that the Watchpoint’s younger charges could while their nights away living on the edge of a drunken wonder fuelled by the beauty of an endless sea.

However, there is one memory that was always more vivid than the others.

McCree wasn’t good at drinking games when he was younger, he didn’t learn to hold his alcohol until well into his twenties, and the party atmosphere that came with inebriated games of Truth or Dare or FMK pressured him into giving the most honest, revealing, _embarrassing_ answers possible.

But it was better with two. Secrets always tend to be.

“Wait, no, I have one.” Angela had hiccupped, flushed blossom pink from her, now, warm white wine, and stumbling over the just barely understood rules of would you rather. She appeared pale and milky in the moonlight but, then again, she sort of always did. “You have to marry…Ana, Torbjörn, or Reinhardt. Who do you choose?”

McCree had barely kept himself from spluttering on his whiskey schnapps, a drink that had warmed his hollow belly since he was a waddling preteen, and watched as the golden dribble that had escaped his mouth stained the collar of his best gingham shirt.

“ _Are you kidding_? Reinhardt, easy question, next.”

Breaking into unabashed giggles, Angela had writhed so freely in joy that McCree feared for the safety of her wine, sloshing about precariously.

“Hold on - !” she crooned, only just audible above her own wild snorting. “Explain!”

“Hmm?”

“Why Reinhardt? You need to give me a reason as to why you’d marry him.”

McCree didn’t hold back on his scoff, and instead reached for the long necked bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that Angela herself couldn’t ever hope to reach in her drunken haze. He refilled her glass hastily, took his own hesitant sip, before tipping his head thoughtfully. Leaning back on his elbows, his eyes seemed to glaze over.

“Well, I mean, c’mon, look at him. Blonde hair, blue eyes, hot scars. That ticks quite a few boxes. Not to mention - !” he shot bolt upright, his eyes suddenly wide like the amber moon above, red in the face, “He’s absolutely _shredded_ , Angie. He’s also perfect husband material! Makes great breakfast, perfect cuddling arm, probably has a _huge_ – “

“Alright, stop.” Angela raised her hands in alarm, pushing at McCree’s shoulder in a way that made him wonder how he ever brought himself to kiss this woman, who was so clearly a different blooded sister. “I don’t need to…don’t need to hear the rest of that thought process.”

“Y’know I dream I gave him daffodils the other night,” McCree had slurred, “Might mean something’. But, y’know, Moira and Jack were also the same person in that dream so probably not.”

The memory became foggy there, probably something to do with the last clear image, which was pounding four shots of whiskey at Angela’s request. Irresponsibility had felt so good then, and it _looked_ good on Angela, who was always stiff shouldered and stern faced as long as she had her Caduceus staff in hand.

It seemed not much had changed.

Lena, as always, flew the Orca like a maniac, although a maniac who knew what she was doing. McCree, alongside the other inhabitants of the newly formed Overwatch, gazed on as she looped the landing pad four, extravagant times, before landing cleanly with a stylish spin – perhaps to impress the aforementioned Dr Ziegler, who she’d had a tiny superficial crush on since her rookie days, or maybe to trigger one of Torbjörn’s chronic migraines, impish as she was.

She was the first to disembark, zipping down the door ramp, two long metal cases in hand. Skidding to a halt, she called back to the yawning craft,

“Torb! Where should I put these case thingies?”

“Outside my workshop if it’s not too much work, Lena. I’ll be surprised if you can even open the doors on the old girl.”

It felt like years since McCree had heard Torbjörn’s voice, too loud and always gruff, but with the warm cadence of a father. The team watched as the small man rounded the air craft, his eyes lighting up with joy at the sight of comrades, new and old alike, waiting for him atop the landing pads. He looked older than before, although that was to be expected, but his beard was still blonde and his features still animated. Even on board the Orca he was decked head to toe in engineering gear, his blue overalls stinking of machine oil and loose threads from the rag he kept tucked in his belt snagged in the intricacies of his prosthesis. He appeared for all the world like he’d never left his beloved Gibraltar workshop.

Nobody is surprised when Torbjörn and Reinhardt seem physically propelled towards each other, capturing one another in a sweet, although unbearably loud, embrace.

Lena, having returned from dropping off Torb’s things, hovered excitedly at their side, no doubt eager to introduce him to their newcomers. McCree and Genji exchanged troubled looks, before both glancing to Zenyatta, who floated obliviously to the walking talking controversial opinion that was so lovingly patting Reinhardt’s silver mane.

“Should we just…” McCree began, before Genji settled a cold hand on his arm, reassurance clear in the touch,

“Let it play out. My master knows how to handle himself in the presence of the ignorant.” his voice was serene, so different to the Genji he’d known in Blackwatch, who crackled like a broken record with every vindictive spit. He preferred this Genji. The one that accepted himself. “Who know, Torbjörn is an intelligent man, perhaps Zenyatta can assist him to see the error of his ways.”

“I know you two are having a heart to heart about our omnic guidance counsellor,” Hanzo’s steady monotone broke through the white noise, and both McCree and Genji turned to see him, ghosting behind the rest of the group, distant as usual. He was decked out in the usual attire, leather or denim or _something_ but it was certainly black, but the splash of yellow on his t-shirt (some _ancient_ grunge band from pre 2000s that McCree didn’t have the music knowledge nor have a rat’s ass to name) lit up his face somewhat, brought more colour to his cheeks.

Well, at least to McCree, who overanalysed how every aspect of Hanzo as a person affected the world around him.

“But I believe there is another visitor who McCree has been meaning to catch up with.” Hanzo nods towards the craft where, when McCree finally turns his head, a certain good doctor is easing her way down the landing ramp, Caduceus in hand.

“I _told_ you to put that magic wand of yours in the travel case Angela, you might damage it if you carry it around like a walking stick – “ Torbjörn was yelling, somewhere in the near distance outside the watery encasing of McCree’s brain. He didn’t care to listen, as, although it came from a good place, Torb was always complaining about something.

She looked more tired.

Unsurprisingly, her pretty face was the same: pale and soft and bright eyed and glowing the way only she could. The slight wrinkle to her brow and greyness beneath her lashed gave way to something older, however, a grim reminder of what the horrors of war do to the people left to clean them up. Over her left arm was slung a piece of flexible, white armour, two sashes of shining golden fabric, seemingly stiffened with a net fizzing with translucent nanotechnology. McCree could recognise the Valkyrie suit anywhere – as iconic as it now was – although it had come a long way from the sterile whites and blood reds that Moira had worn around the Blackwatch med bay. Angela made it look less _scientist_ more _saviour_. Angela made the Valkyrie suit look like _mercy_.

“Are you going to stare at her or greet her?” Hanzo prompted, his booted toes digging into McCree’s own stationary legs. He stumbled forward, only glancing back momentarily to shoot Hanzo a _look_. Hanzo gave his own in response, although the curl of his lip was too smug to keep McCree’s cheeks any other colour than beet red.

The moment felt captured in formaldehyde, yellow and wet and floating in a suspended state of _oh god oh god oh god_ but Angela was drawing away from her hug with Winston, shaking hands amicably with Zenyatta, and turning ever so agonisingly slowly to face him.

“Oh, good lord.” her voice didn’t seem real, but the arms wrapping around his neck did, and the warm weight of her body against his own felt almost _too_ real, “It’s so lovely to see you again, cowboy.”

“Yeah…” he swallowed thickly around his own tongue, “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> platonic relationships between men and women should be conveyed as poetic and impactful more often


	5. Chapter 5

When Torbjörn informed the rest of the team on his first night spent back at the Watchpoint, scarfing down the remnants of a thick, suspiciously orange stew Reinhardt had concocted earlier that week, that a ‘special surprise’ would be arriving within the next few days, McCree had had many things in mind.

Perhaps new weapons, upgraded versions of what legends amongst men had once wielded on the battlefield, blue prints for something he needed help making. It wouldn’t be a surprise, with the combined efforts of Torb, Winston, and Angela all returned to their old stomping grounds, almost anything could be achieved.

Come to think about it, McCree reckoned that perhaps if he’d paid more attention to how Torb snooped around the Watchpoint that week, asking questions no one would think of the fellow to ask, looking for old projects that had been gathering dust beneath various workroom desks, even going so far as to engage in amicable, if somewhat stiff, conversation with _Zenyatta_ of all people.

The entire team had been flabbergasted at the time, milling around the rec-room at their own leisure, but entirely thrown for a loop when Torb, mug of coffee – more like death tar if McCree remembered correctly how he made it for Gabe – in hand and nonchalantly inspecting his prosthesis, had taken a seat beside the resting omnic. Zenyatta did not hesitate to look up from the book he had been diligently scanning, and tilt his head, the slightest invitation to pursue the conversation he seemed to be awkwardly tip-toeing around.

Unsurprisingly, the room had rippled with a tension so palpable it made McCree uncomfortable from his spot on the floor, leaning against the foot of an armchair currently accommodating a very twitchy Genji ( - McCree could hear all sorts of wires fizzing and mechanisms whirring from within the cyborg’s carbon fibre casing - ) and an unimpressed Hanzo, who watched with darkened eyes at what may have been an unfortunate debate about to spring to life. Gripping the neck of his beer, McCree had taken to glancing around the room so as not to stare, but only found himself coming across other, clearly uncomfortable, agents twiddling their proverbial thumbs: Reinhardt and Winston fidgeting so much that their huge bodies seemed to cause even more disturbance in the mood, Lena and Angela trying to distract themselves with the tea in their mugs or the dust on their shoes.

Everything felt frozen until –

“What do you know about Bastion Units?”

Yes. Perhaps if McCree had thought about that peculiar conversation (as it was extremely so; continuing on for many hours and so stuffed with reels of social, historical, and technical jargon that no one would have considered Torbjörn capable to process, least of all from an omnic, and yet he sat and sipped at his awful coffee and nodded. And never said a word.) a little harder, been a little less eager to rid that awkward moment from his mind once and for all, he would have seen the coming.

On Friday, Torb called the entire team to his workshop – which still lay coated in dust and creaking from disuse, but seemed a little more homely since the windows had been thrown open and the engineer’s tools were littering the tables and work surfaces once more – and seemed almost ready to burst with excitement as he gestured to a large, stainless steel shipping crate perched on the largest work desk in the room.

“Athena told me we’d be expecting a delivery…” Winston pushed his glasses up his nose, big blue paws shaky with the anxiety that came with things happening around the Watchpoint without his knowledge, and loped towards the crate, eyeing it suspiciously. “But she hadn’t specified it was for you, Torbjörn. So…what _exactly_ is so important about…this?”

Guffawing that ridiculous laugh of his, Torb wrapped his knuckles against the box with a knowing grin. His self-confidence wasn’t enough to put the team at ease.

McCree was familiar with it, a self-importance that Torbjörn had always had, and sometimes got him into trouble. Whilst he may have been humble, he had no doubt in his own ability, even on the rare occasion that he was right to be. Countless, were the times that he had been so confident that his turrets would hold out, or his additions to tactical planning sessions were fool-proof, only to result in something blowing a fuse, or a lead falling through.

He couldn’t help but be concerned that this may be the same.

“What’s got all of you so worried!” he roared, continuing to knock against the crate, “I’ve got something real good in store for the lot of you.”

He wasn’t exactly wrong.

Nobody had really been expecting the crate to reassemble itself, to twist and turn and whizz and grind until it took the shape of something distinctly nightmare inducing. There was not a single person in the room who had not seen – or perhaps even experienced – the furious _ratatatat_ of Bastion Unit gunfire, and seeing one so nonchalantly rocking back and forth in Torbjörn’s workshop was something of a shock.

It didn’t look the way McCree remembered them. He’d only ever seen one of the original build – Null Sector didn’t count, he’d seen _more_ than enough of those - in person, on a Blackwatch mission to clean out potential left over explosives in Eichenwalde, and even then, it was ragged, ripped to shreds of awful shining metal. It was still active, beeping and whirring in complete horror at their approach, but blinked out entirely when Genji – and McCree had always looked back on this with a frown, thinking what omnic hating thoughts were flying through the mind of a man still trying to accept his half omnic body. It wouldn’t be the first time Genji had taken dibs on taking out bots – had jammed a full load of shuriken into its wire stuffed brain.

This one wasn’t like that. It wasn’t the typical brick red or rust orange, nor the garish purple that still haunted McCree on the odd occasion he’d have a nightmare about stumbling through the streets of omnic overthrown London, but a bland grey and white that seemed to allude to stripped paint, or an unfinished factory job. Bundles of pea green vines entwined its joints and appendages, some even sprouting sweet pink flowers, a little squashed from the tight fitting journey. In the seams and crevices of its metal cadavers were compressed lines of soil and dust. It looked as though Torbjörn had grown the unit in his garden.

Its name was, fittingly, Bastion, Torb had informed them, and it whirred fondly.

McCree saw Bastion sparingly in the following weeks. To be fair, many seemed unnerved by their new arrival, and whilst polite in passing, were concerned in private.

The only time McCree could be certain that he’d see Bastion was early in the mornings, when he’d stroll groggily to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee or fix himself a breakfast sandwich, the beat up old thing would be standing on the balcony, staring out to Gibraltar’s seemingly endless sky, like it was waiting for him. Torb had taken to keeping spare oil changes around the Watchpoint, in case Bastion was in need, and out of common decency McCree would join the bot on the balcony, coffee in one hand, oil in the other, and fix up its joints. Bastion would always beep excitedly in thanks, its tiny rectangular head bobbing. McCree would simply nod, drink up his coffee quick, and be on his way.

After the first two weeks, Bastion stops frequenting the kitchen balcony in the mornings, and McCree just assumes it’s moved on to more interesting pastimes.

That is until he finds Hanzo in the roof garden.

The roof garden had been Ana’s idea, way back, when Fareeha had no one her age to play with on base, and McCree and Angela and Genji were too busy to keep her entertained all the time. Fareeha had of course fallen real fast and real hard, real quick, as most kids tend to do whenever they are introduced to a new, fun pastime. She spent almost every day up on the roof, tending to the vegetables and the flowers, and when she had nothing to tend, she’d draw pictures of the plants. When that, too, got boring, she returned to her roots, and played fighter pilots, weaving in and out and of the vines and lots and patches.

McCree remembered many a rest day that Fareeha had dragged Genji and him up to the roof so they could have play fights in the soil, or so they could help her plant new seeds without breaking something or getting too messy.

Eventually she’d decided to have special lots for everyone. She grew tomatoes and peppers for Gabe, who always used them when he made his famous Reyes Family Flaming Chilli (the one that made Jack go red in the face and wet at the temple whenever he tried eating it) and potatoes and herbs for Reinhardt, who always looked as though he may burst into tears whenever she skipped to his room to offer him the overflowing baskets. Even the flowers she grew seemed to have great appeal, Angela and Ana arranging them nicely for the kitchen and the mess hall, and occasionally even the likes of Moira perusing the more exotic blooms.

The roof gardens, however, had since fallen into decay.

McCree knew they lay in brown ruins now, scorched half way to Hell by the Spanish sun, crispy and crackled and not in the least fertile. It was curiosity however, that drove him up for a smoke that day, and curiosity, too, that kept him there.

He shouldered the door open with a grunt, squinting as the sun glared at him, angry and oppressive. It was worse considering it wasn’t even warm today, and brusque wind dared to ruffle him despite the blue skies and white, bright light. He hadn’t ventured up here since reacquainting himself with the Watchpoint during his arrival, many months ago now, although thinking about that made his head hurt. Even so, he remembered the layout quite well, and wasn’t expecting to see a deckchair and a new, beautiful green patch of sweet peas growing.

Hanzo was sat in the deckchair, a dog eared magazine in his lap, and a glass of orange juice in his hand. A pack of his silly floral cigarettes and that yellow lighter were discarded under the deckchair, along with a dirt stained denim jacket. He seemed intent on his reading, and didn’t look up at McCree, even when the heels of his boots clicked against the concrete.

Beside Hanzo’s deckchair, was Bastion, holding a plastic tray full of seed packets. There were countless colours and types, from flowers and fruit to succulents and trees, all scattered in a way that seemed to make Bastion nervous, as it beeped and whirred loudly enough that Hanzo looked up from his magazine.

“Hello McCree.” Hanzo greeted, tilting his head, but he seemed completely unfazed by his presence, instead he turned to the flustered omnic. “Which ones do you want to plant, Bastion?”

Bastion pointed to the red seed packet, slightly ripped and spilling out a few tiny black seeds. It beeped slowly, as if saying _these ones_ to Hanzo.

“Poppy seeds?” Hanzo smiled, something that nearly bowled McCree away. Even as he itched for the cigar in his fingers, that he was yet to light, something about the way Hanzo maintained that smile as he stood and took the tray from Bastion felt like far more of a debilitating addiction. He slipped into the deckchair, smirking at the disgruntled look Hanzo threw him for stealing his seat, and let what felt like a high simmer in his belly as he let himself slip the cigar between his lips.

“A nice choice,” Hanzo said eventually, kneeling down to pat a clear space in the soil in one of the lots. It seemed as though the soil had been replaced, now soft and black and fertile, no longer like chalky sand that the sun had cursed to uselessness. “They’re very pretty flowers. Did you know it’s been used as both a medicinal and recreational drug for thousands of years?”

Hanzo spoke softly to Bastion, as if addressing a curious child, and, in adorable fashion, Bastion responded as such. It clucked and bounced and watched Hanzo plant the seeds with care, whirring and nudging his shoulder as if urging him to continue to speak.

“There are lots of different types,” Hanzo continued, patting down the soil with a softness in his hands that McCree had never seen him exhibit before. “My favourite is the bear paw. It’s yellow and white, and very tall. But we’re planting the garden variety.”

McCree’s interest perked, and he leant forward, his cigar curling.

“Bear paw, huh?” he said, and Bastion whipped around, clunking and clattering as it approached McCree. It collapsed at the foot of the deckchair, looking up, its featureless face somehow exuding fascination. McCree smiled, a little unsure, at the omnic, and patted its huge shoulder. Even when sat Bastion was of almost daunting size. “They used to grow all ‘round our farm when I was growin’ up.”

“Is that so?” Hanzo hummed, standing and making to grab a quaint tin watering can. Although the royal blue paint was stripping off, McCree recognised it as the one Fareeha used. It must have stayed up here with the rest of the gardening equipment. “I read that they only grew in the Mojave?”

“Well you sure were readin’ some old books,” McCree said in response, not missing the half smile that Hanzo hid behind the handle of the watering can. He picked up the magazine that Hanzo had left at the foot of the deckchair – a botany issue. And sure enough, it was one hell of an old print. 2020s. ’26 to be exact. A good ten or so years before either McCree or Hanzo were even born. “It used to be that they could only grow in real harsh soil, but some scientists with too much time on their hands meddled with their genes and fixed ‘em up for different desert environments. My mama used to pick ‘em and arrange ‘em with yarrow and onion flowers.”

“No yucca?” Hanzo asked, taking a seat beside Bastion, and snatching his magazine back from McCree’s wandering hands. McCree laughed and tapped the ash of his cigar away on the elbow mechanism of his arm.

“Aw Hell, look at you, knowin’ state flowers.” he took a thoughtful puff of his cigar, and glanced at the patch of black soil where Hanzo had planted the poppy seeds. “Didn’t know you were so into gardening.”

Nodding, Hanzo leafed through the pages of his magazine, a distant look in his eyes, “My grandfather used to teach me about botany when I was little. He died when I was very young but it’s an interest that’s remained.”

Well…the magazine _had_ been old.

“I suppose it’s why Bastion and I get along so well, hmm?” Hanzo patted Bastion’s side, and the omnic hummed cheerily, before emitting a low beep and patting Hanzo back. He made no hesitation in responding,

“Poppies can be found all around the world, but it’s widely believed they originated in some Mediterranean area.”

McCree found Hanzo in the kitchen that evening, microwaving a bowl of soup and reading its ingredients list with scrutinizing eyes in the half light. When the overhead lights flicked on he didn’t jump, but held stiffly onto the edge of the sideboard.

“Good evening.” McCree offered him a smile, making his way toward the fridge. There wasn’t much left of anything besides a few cartons of Greek yoghurt, a Tupperware bowl of stew with _REINHARDT’S DO NOT TOUCH_ scrawled across the lid, and various vegetables and fruit stuffed to the back of the shelves. He’d have to remember to go on a groceries run tomorrow. “Gardening treat you well?”

Smirking, Hanzo pushed at the microwave buttons to release the door, and inspected his soup, still looking a little lukewarm. “It did. Although, Bastion seemed upset when you left. I think it likes you.”

“Aw.” McCree smiled gently, closing the fridge and settling for a tangerine from the fruit bowl. He took a seat at the table. “I’m sure I ain’t nearly as interesting as you. What, uh, how’d you find yourself makin’ friends with it anyhow?”

Seemingly accepting that his mediocre soup wasn’t going to get any better, Hanzo grabbed a spoon from the drawer and took a seat opposite McCree. He looked thoughtfully into the bowl as he stirred, before saying,

“I’m not…entirely sure. I suppose it was because it looked lonely. You know it sat on the balcony,” Hanzo gestured with his thumb over his shoulder to the French doors, “every morning just staring at the sky?”

“Yeah.” McCree picked at the pile of peel he’d amassed on the table.

“Well I…I knew that the roof gardens were empty and Torbjörn said that it seemed to like the outdoors so I just…”

Hanzo trailed off, his hands going lax. For a moment it seemed like he was going to continue talking, but the slight _o_ of his mouth became a tight line, and he ate his soup in silence.

McCree got it.

 

“Where could they be - !?” Reinhardt ran his huge hands along the shelves of the small supermarket that McCree had grown familiar with over the last months. They were searching for tinned peaches – for Genji, who still made a habit of eating despite not needing to – but couldn’t seem to track any of the damn blighters down. “It should not be this difficult to find slices of fruit!”

They may have been in their civvies, but Reinhardt’s booming voice alone was enough to draw attention and, under the hot gazes of maybe too many store goers, McCree hushed his giant accomplice with a hand to his arm. “It’s alright if we don’t find them, we can always just get him fresh ones.

“But he wanted – “

“He only asks for tinned peaches because he’s lazy, Rein. He’s never been able to slice pitted fruit and he’s too stubborn to admit that _or_ learn to.”

Although Reinhardt grumbled, always loathe to let a friend down, they made their way to the checkout with a cart full of food and supplies, including fresh peaches in a sweet pink punnet.

At the checkout were the typical racks of sweets and greetings cards, should a customer decide last minute they need either, but beside another was a tall, green wire tube, with small plastic packets pinned to it. McCree couldn’t make out what they were at first, but wasn’t in the least part hesitant when he grew close enough to read the labels.

“Why do we need these?” Reinhardt asked as McCree threw a packet of yucca seeds in with the rest of the shopping.

“For a friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much for weekly updates


	6. Chapter 6

McCree’s first _black tie_ mission, as they’d come to be called, was barely a year and a half into his tenderfooted Blackwatch days, smack bang in the epicentre of champagne foam-at-the-mouth Las Vegas, and named – fondly – Mission Honeypot. Whilst the free booze was a blessing and the casino that he’d traipsed so wolfishly was playing an ancient – but classy – compilation of Elton John’s great, glitteriest hits, McCree didn’t exactly take kindly to the fact that he, for all intents and purposes, was the honeypot.

Now this was before Genji, before Moira, before static cackling and snide remarks to take him off his high horse, so, despite the title, he hadn’t felt too much like a shiny knick-knack made for mocking. See, in his first tempestuous year of navigating Overwatch and its bizarre assets (and figuring out that certain things found acceptable in sleazy motorcycle gangs were not so in international government armed forces) McCree had made his name as quite the flirt. Anything with a pulse and a pretty face was fair game, and, although many a disapproving adult had turned him away with a disgruntled grin and cocked brow, he’d also won his fair share of sneaky makeouts in vacated briefrooms and fleeting gropes in cramped supply cupboards.

And that is what made him prime material for Mission Honeypot.

In a matter of hours McCree was stocked up with all sorts of gadgets and gizmos, suited and booted into 100% Italian wool and brand spanking new Nubuck leather, and gifted – his personal favourite – an untraceable ID under the name José Alvarado that could by him as many whiskey schnapps as he so desired. Not another hour later he was stepping out of the hovercraft after his hyper journey through the watercolour Nevada desert and starting his search for the usurper of America’s most prolific card sharking gang.

She’d been easy enough to find.

Pretty, green eyed, and giggling behind strawberry blonde curls. Snakelike in a way that didn’t speak quite the same as her flute of sparkling rosé. She’d clicked the emerald heels of her suede stilettos to the glossy chessboard floor and ordered McCree a finger of whiskey before he’d even taken a seat beside her.

“Lucky guess?” he’d downed the liquor with the sleaziest grin he could muster, eyes darkening when her gaze settled on the violent bob of his prominent Adam’s apple.

“Annaleise.” she’d responded – not an answer, McCree noted – and swirled her wine.

“José.” he purred, playing up the Mexican rumble that his mother had bled into his tongue when she sang him Spanish lullabies on winter nights.

God knows what his _mamá_ would think had she seen him there. Had she known he was alive.

Three hours was all it took. Three hours of teaching Annaleise Spanish cursewords, childishly mixing each other’s drinks, leaving lingering touches on inner thighs.

“I have a room.” she’d hissed at the end of the third hour, now on colourful shots as she rose, elegant despite her inebriation, from the plush stool beneath her.

“Sounds like a plan.” and it had been, as whilst McCree was quick to kiss Annaleise pressed up against the elevator walls, he was quicker to draw a gun on her half-dressed on the bed.

“You’re kidding.” the target had groaned, dropping the hands fiddling at her bra clasp. She fell backward onto the bed, eyes vacant and tone blasé as she gestured to her dress strewn on the floor, a gaudy number of chartreuse and crushed velvet. “Just don’t get blood on the dress, it’s Gucci.”

“I ain’t gotta pull the trigger ‘less you refuse to hand over what you know I’m here for.”

Annaleise frowned.

“You Overwatch?”

McCree shrugged.

“Give or take.”

“Well,” she sat up once more, fingers straying to fiddle with the seam on her stockings, “We don’t associate with _omnic forces_ anymore. Not since I took over.” she paused. “If. If that’s what you were here about.”

McCree had never been one for subtleties, and it showed, as the moment _you know what I’m here for_ left his lips, he was dodging a knife to the ribs that Annaleise had pulled from her garter like a needle through cotton. He didn’t get blood on the Gucci frock, but he did get it on most of the walls, and all of the bedsheets.

Hey, can’t be clean as a whistle everytime.

 _But that,_ McCree thought (head in his hands as the Orca shook on turbulence, nerves, and what was probably pure electricity radiating from Lena’s entire being) _was nineteen years ago_ , and he was not prepared for  a full night of what had long been a young man’s job.

A high end exhibition opening party in Vienna, full of depressingly talented creative minds, all revolving around the growing success of bleeding edge omnic artist Sai Circueet seemed a little… _not his style_. Not that he couldn’t appreciate art, especially Circueet’s, whose huge abstract canvases in red and browns were mighty pretty, simply that…surely there was someone better fit for this.

Well, no, there wasn’t, as, at current, Overwatch was being occupied by what felt like three skittish dogs and a nickel.

“Feeling nervous, Mr McCree?” broken from his morose stupor by the humming of a chest mechanism beneath cashmere, McCree shook himself to the image of Zenyatta settling in the fold down seat beside him. “Or am I sensing some other kind of tension within you?”

Zenyatta looked, admittedly, adorable in his mission getup; bundled up in a shoulder hugging white turtleneck and topped with a fuzzy red beret.

 _Red_ , he remembered Winston explaining that morning, _the theme is red_.

“Oh, uh, nah Zen, I just…” he stuttered for a moment, before giving in and hanging his head doggedly into his upturned palms. “What’s even happening tonight buddy?”

Whirring in a pleasant sort of laugh, Zenyatta linked his slender steel fingers together and began.

“Tonight we are not only honoured meeting the great talent Sai Circueet, but with the task of retrieving intel embedded – unbeknownst to him – in his memory drive that otherwise may fall into the hands of Talon operatives posted in his home city of Mumbai where he will be returning – “

“Yeah, yeah, I got that in briefing.” McCree interrupted, he liked Zenyatta a lot, he really did, but the fella didn’t half give the third degree. “I mean…I just haven’t been on a mission like this since…hell I musta been twenty five the last time.”

“So you _are_ nervous.”

“Now I didn’t say – “

“There is no need to be embarrassed, Mr McCree. Having such anxieties on your first undercover mission in many years is completely understandable. You are not made of stone. Your feelings are valid.” A pause. McCree watched the blur of city lights rush by the sloped, coop door of the Orca as they grew closer and closer to touchdown in Vienna with each minute. “Above all, you and Agent Hanzo are simply backups this evening. It is my student and I who are the true spine of our success tonight.”

Zenyatta gestured with warm placidity to where Genji sat at the table opposite, his face plate removed and playing a, seemingly, heated game of go-fish with Reinhardt. Angela oversaw the match with endearing solemnity, whilst Hanzo tried not to appear distracted from the tablet in his lap, which offered him a protective wall of soft rock into his earbuds.

They all looked fantastic, truthfully: Reinhardt as hulking and handsome as ever in a well-fit wine coloured tuxedo, looking for all the world like a young man with old man’s hair; Genji sporting a trendy inverse of Zenyatta’s getup (a red sweater and a white beret); Angela in a crimson shift dress that made her look all at once dashing and motherly; and Hanzo, clean cut in a way that put his preferred dress of faded t-shirts and ripped jean-jackets to shame, with a candy-red turtleneck and ebony sports jacket.

Their combined levels of attractiveness made McCree shift uncomfortably in his own red button down, tugging at his bolo-tie as he mumbled,

“Exactly. Don’t see no reason to be there.”

Zenyatta chuckled as the craft came to a jarring halt, Lena’s own bubbling laughter overflowing from the cockpit, “But I’ve already told you. Backup.”

 

Perhaps this mission’s only saving gracing was that McCree and Hanzo were positioned at the bar.

Parties were fun, and people were fascinating, but the boil of frantic red silk and satin and chiffon and linen that lined the plush halls of the conference building turned artsy big-bash was intimidating in a way that overpowered McCree’s desire to mingle. Besides, if all a mission required of him was to keep his comm on whilst he shared wine with Hanzo, he was more than willing to oblige.

They had met Circueet briefly, when they tumbled all a bit ramshackle into the main hall, the omnic’s vivid blue face-lights illuminating in joy at their arrival. McCree vaguely remembered their cover story: in the dawn of Circueet’s attempts to accumulate fellow omnic artists for a union, Genji and Zenyatta were adopting the facades of Mr and Mr Watanabe, an emerging minimalist artist from rural Japan and his placid poet partner, whom he had both met and married within the span of a year during a spiritual getaway with the Shambali. Angela, Hanzo, and himself were a suspiciously large press team, and Reinhardt was their ravishing bodyguard.

Honestly, no wonder Circueet had been glad to see them.

“Mr and Mr Watanabe!” he had droned, his voice synthesiser clearly an early model minced unfortunately with an upgraded chasse, holding out his hands (fingerless) to shake with who appeared to have swiftly become his new best friends. “It is so _fantastic_ to meet you, I must admit when my assistant told me yesterday you would be attending I had never heard of your work but I _simply_ _poured myself_ over it last night. Mr Watanabe, your use of shape and colour is revolutionary. And Mr Watanabe? I have never read poetry so moving.”

Mr Watanabe’s _paintings_ (which had been hastily uploaded onto a fake website designed by Athena a few days previous) were in fact the result of giving Bastion a set of children’s acrylics and an assortment of cheap brushes from the hobby store. McCree had been surprised when he’d seen that what Bastion produced, although messy, was rather pleasant to look. He had been more surprised, however, when, rather than using the brushes Hanzo had picked out for it, Bastion instead opted to slather a trowel, an empty seed packet, and several other garden tools in paint.

Mr Watanabe’s _poetry_ on the other hand had, apparently, all been written by Zenyatta in the rushed efforts to create his persona. McCree had not yet brought himself to read it, always a bit iffy on poetry: just enough rhyming to read like a song, but not enough beat to play well on his guitar. He was certain, with Zenyatta’s vocabulary, it would soar over his head anyhow.

But, now, he needn’t worry about all that, as their cheery brigade of omnics were discussing the arts in the, currently, locked halls of the exhibition, and he had not only an attractive waiter pouring him a glass of Sangria, but an attractive drinking mate to pass his time with.

“So your artistic cover up is,” McCree gestured to the oversized guitar case that contained Stormbow slung over Hanzo’s shoulder, squinting at the badges and stickers messily hot glued to the plastic. “Hipster?”

“Drag yourself,” Hanzo snorted as he had his own drink passed to him, “ _This_ is little more than a prop and _you’re_ the one who can actually play guitar.”

“Fair,” McCree raised his hands, “Fair.”

Sandwiched between a gaggle of tipsy women (all in matching cocktail dress of various garnet shades) and a tubby many with what appeared to be a nasty cold, the space between them could have felt cold, but the music and laughter carried overhead in waves, and McCree anticipated an evening spent having nice conversation with Hanzo as much as he thought he’d despise this mission before Zenyatta – metaphorically – wacked some sense into him.

“Do you dabble in art, at all?” Hanzo grimaced as the man beside them sneezed. He toyed with the edge of his cocktail glass.

“Ugh, God, I wish.” McCree said, “I certainly like art, it’s real nice to look at, especially when you find somethin’ that really tickles your fancy but uh…I was never really _adept_ enough creatively to get it.”

“And yet you play music?” Hanzo smiled. “Is there not _one_ artist you can bring to mind? Someone you admire, perhaps.”

Letting his eyes drift over the undulating sea of cardinal party goers, McCree chewed at his lip, tasting the fruity remains of Sangria on his gums. “Who was the, uh, blurry stripes guy from the 1900s? Just painted big blocks of colour. Mark somethin’.”

“Rothko?”

“Hell if I know.”

The roll of Hanzo’s chuckle set a fire in the base of McCree spine, and he turned his head to watch him. He sipped nonchalantly at his Blood Mary, truly falling into his artsy character a little too well with the way his dark locks and angular face made him seen like more of a piece of art than anything that lay beyond the walls of this building.

“Y’know, I coulda got into art if I applied myself.” McCree pushed at Hanzo’s shoulder playfully, smirking as if the both of them knew that that certainly wasn’t true. Hanzo raised a perfect eyebrow, as if asking him to continue. “Well, I taught myself guitar didn’t I?”

“If what you tell me is not lies and slander then…yes, McCree, you taught yourself how to play the guitar.”

“Exactly!” McCree gave a half-hearted chuckled, took another sip of his wine.

Sighed.

“Guess I was just too…well, y’know.” he laughed, a little rueful. Enough that it had Hanzo narrowing his eyes at him, swirling his slightly damp finger along the rim of his glass until it made that whistling, trembling noise. “Too Jesse.”

There was a short moment of silence (or, as silent as silence could be when what felt like the whole population of Vienna was circling appetisers trays and discussing pencil grades – or whatever it is artists do – not two metres behind them), broken swiftly by another sneeze from the sick man, and then followed with the sweet finality of a slightly repressed laugh from Hanzo’s tightly drawn lips.

“Care to elaborate?”

“W-well I was,” McCree stumbled over his words, nervous despite knowing that Hanzo sat beside him, not an ounce of his heavy gaze a judgement. He looked at the palm of his left hand, oiled and shined and all-cracks-filled for the special occasion, and it had never felt more like a phantom’s property. “I was between hay and grass, you see. Right bastard of a blighter sometimes too.”

“Bastard of a blighter?” Hanzo regarded his Bloody Mary with the eyes of a man used to sipping at cocktail glasses with murder on his mind. It’s not exactly hard to imagine him wringing necks into his beverage, working his deft fingers to juice out that wild colour.

It made McCree ache for liquid iron.

“What’s that word?” a simper trembled at the edge of Hanzo’s alcohol glossy lips. “Tautology?”

“Listen, ain’t enough words in the whole damn dictionary to really peg down how downright awful I could be when puberty, uh, took the wheel. I guess.”

“All teenagers are unreasonable to times, McCree.” the slight jab of an elbow slid between McCree’s ribs, and they shared a knowing look. “And I am inclined to believe that you were well within your rights to do so.”

“You may be a right smart fella, Hanzo, but you don’t know that.”

A sharp laugh, deep from the back of Hanzo’s throat, and he chucked down the remainder of his drink like it was his first drop of water in an eternal desert. “I’ve read your file.”

McCree spluttered, damn near almost spitting wine all over the bar in front of a squinty eyed waitress, before doing a slack-jawed double take that had Hanzo laughing all over again.

“You what now?”

Hanzo’s eyes glittered mischievously as he wiped his fingers on a stray napkin, smile curling churlishly.

“Athena has non-confidential files ready on command – I had her download yours to my tablet the day we returned from our first mission together.”

Kingsrow. A grey and limpid evening when the rain had splattered like cold death and none of the nice rent-a-room pubs were open long enough to pay for somewhere nice to sleep – they’d instead opted for a rundown Travel Lodge some hours walk out of town central, and barely slept on lumpy mattresses and threadbare pillows. Something of a friendship had blossomed, though, however strange it may have been, and there was always the upside of how stunning Hanzo looked damp and glistening in the orange cast of a flickering streetlamp.

_Don’t think like that._

“And…my file ain’t considered confidential?”

“Not all of it. There are a few redacted documents in your early Blackwatch days but I could fill in the blanks well enough.” Hanzo seemingly took pleasure in McCree’s confusion, and his Cheshire cat grin only widened as he waved the bartender over for a refill. “Relax. Everyone’s files are public access, I’ve read most of them.”

“And here I was thinking I got the special treatment.” McCree said, almost indignantly, watching the bartender stylishly hurl his cocktail shaker into the air.

“Not even close. I didn’t even read yours first.” _glug glug glug_ as the cocktail was poured, Hanzo eyed it calmly, “My brother took that privilege.”

They chuckled together, the sweetly fragranced air of the night flowing between their shared headspace. They glanced at the seemingly ever growing tumult of guests. They sipped at their newly offered drinks.

“You said ‘most’? Whose are you on now?”

Hanzo sighed contently as he nursed his drink, scrunching his eyes and nose in an effort to remember. _That_. That was sweet.

“I’ve been reading over Dr Ziegler’s since her return. I’ve almost finished it.” the look they shared felt heavy in a syrupy way, like a saturation of cloying honey on McCree’s tongue. “I felt I owed you that much…to understand someone who clearly means so much to you.”

A pang of _feeling_ hit McCree all sweet and sad and smelling like curls of honeysuckle in late summer air. His voice fell out all susurrus and hushed, feeling like how his eyes must look: droopy.

“Hanzo…you don’t owe me nothing.”

Hanzo ignored him.

“I’ll be reading Morrison’s next. Then O’Deorain.”

His swig seemed calculated; crawling down his throat like oil the way McCree watched it catch his Adam’s apple, settle in his stomach till it made his shoulders stiff. He worked the words around his tongue like lengths of sticky vines, pulling at the sensitive skin in tandem with Hanzo’s regular sips and swallows.

“You ever read Rey – “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive got a raging hard on for colour symbolism


	7. Chapter 7

The scene in the gallery room was oddly cold, grotesque as something without viscera could be, and certainly unusual enough to have McCree’s stomach turning.

Circueet was lain face down on the chess board marble floors, eerily still in standby mode, the twinkly LEDs in his faceplate powered off – dead, were it not for the engine and conscience still whirring somewhere in his steel cadaver. It seemed so vulnerable, so perverse that his stylish garbs had been pulled aside, and yet no skin or bone glimpsed past the scarlet folds. His back plate was carefully screwed open, propped against his lax limbs. Something bright where his shoulders blades would have been sparked and spat, like a snake spitting out fire, maybe a busted battery.

Angela began gutting him of his wiring.

For what it was worth, McCree had never seen the insides of an omnic, but he had seen detailed, ghastly photography of Genji’s operations in the many files he’d been forced to read upon the cyborg’s acceptance into Blackwatch, and the mass of wiring and plastic tubing was far more pleasant when not intricately sewed into pink sinew and grey bone. Besides, Circueet’s ‘guts’ – as it were – were not nearly as charred.

“What is it exactly you’re lookin’ for?” McCree asked, dropping to his knee and watching Angela scoop out bundles of wire from between imitation iron bone.

An old model then.

“A chip, or, perhaps, a bug of some kind.” Zenyatta responded when Angela let the silence hang for too long. She tended to do that. No need to answer questions asked of you when someone else knows the answer. “Containing highly private Overwatch intel that was to fall into enemy hands were it to follow Circueet to Mumbai.”

“The real question,” Genji knelt beside McCree, his vents hissing in kind as he looked Circueet’s motionless form up and down, “Is where we got the hint.”

Nodding, McCree followed Genji’s gaze, feeling like some kind of criminal ( _or at least one of a far more depraved calibre)_ as Circueet’s body lay on display to the gallery ceiling like a prized fillet of cod.

“I heard from Winston well enough that the source if real sketchy –“ he paused, “But why else would he send us out if he weren’t completely certain?”

Genji gave a non-committal shrug, whilst Zenyatta simply continued to bob. Angela, as usual, was silent.

“I do not mean to worry you, my friends!” Reinhardt’s disheartening attempt at a whisper echoed across the gallery hall from where called at the door, Hanzo looking dwarfed and anxious at his side. “But it seems we are running short on time.”

“Circueet’s officials are approaching.” Hanzo hissed, frantically glancing between the serene gallery and the bustling party. The juxtaposition of wild gutty red and suburban household walls magnolia would have been jarring were it not for the huge canvases the colour of old blood that cast the gallery room into rusty shadows. Hanzo was lit like a beet red harlequin in the shade. “It would be appreciated if Dr Ziegler could _hurry_.”

Whilst Angela never bragged over her status of being a miracle worker, she certainly had the dramatic timing for an airhead. No, she’d always been somewhat _milky_ in personality, and even when she brandished a pair of tweezers with a flourish, a tiny green chip flashing between them, she had only a pleased smile on her lips. With fingers slightly too familiar, she re-connected every wire and stuffed them back in – perhaps with slightly less familiarity – before turning to Genji.

“Close up his plate.” she waved at the disturbing scene on the floor, rising to her feet as she tucked the chip away, nonchalant as if she’d just found a displaced piece of jewellery on the ground. Genji scrabbled to reconnect Circueet’s back plate as fast as possible, tackling with his clothes, but the somewhat Renaissance image of a razed carcass with its exposed wounds naked to the world was still apparent despite his best efforts. “Don’t make more of a mess! Hanzo, Reinhardt, wave his men over.”

Hanzo levelled her a _look_ across the static space between them.

“We’ll tell them his circuits overheated and he collapsed. Mr and Mr Watanabe tried to restart his fan system from the back but are unfamiliar with his old model mechanics,” she took a deep breath, “ _Hopefully_ his bodyguards have old omnic mechanism guidebooks and we haven’t just let one of the most prolific up-and-coming modern artists _die_ at his first exhibition.”

 

 

Circueet did not, in fact, die at his first exhibition.

Whilst his bodyguards and secretaries and PAs and piles upon piles more of turned-nosed and hooded-eyed officials were shocked to see his immobile body cracked open like an abandoned beer tin on the ground, Mr and Mr Watanabe were just too convincing (and _too cute_ in their matching couple outfits) to raise any suspicion, and Angela’s plan flew smoothly as her Valkyrie tech on a day with low wind-speed.

The omnic’s, unsurprisingly, cold body had at first been lugged to Reinhardt to carry to a first-aid room, but Circueet’s wide-eyed assistant seemingly had horrific visions of the omnic snapping like plastic cutlery in his arms and, in his place, McCree was tasked with carrying Circueet through the throngs of, at this point, smashed party-goers to a stream-lined private elevator.

He was lighter than expected, not quite as hefty as Genji without the meat and tubes getting in the way. Although it did feel somewhat wrong, light enough that McCree felt as though he were carrying a cold, limp child through sterile black-and-white corridors. He had seen plenty of dead bodies, touched plenty – carried only a few. And yet somehow this felt worse, feeling more like a cruel, cold imitation of a young corpse than the warm weight of a blood-warm newly-dead.

“That was a God-awful feeling.” he hissed as he lay the omnic off in the emergency room, not sure how he felt about the oil that had slicked up his palms in the process.

Hanzo, beside him, simply hummed, and watched as Circueet was connected to all manner of machines and doo-hickeys to shock him back to life.

And that, somehow, also, was far _far_ worse.

“I _insist_ on treating my saviours to a drink!” Circueet had crowed once he’d been well and truly kicked back into consciousness. “Had they not been there I might not be still hosting this party, after all.”

He had, true to his word, herded the entire team back to the bar for multiple free beverages of their choosing, and whilst some part of McCree ached to fill up on as much strong ( _strong_ ) whiskey as his liver could handle, that desire lay back at the Watchpoint, on his balcony, at night, _alone_.

And drinking with a very talkative, assumedly high on the rush of not dying, Sai Circueet was _not_ a solitary experience.

Whilst the artists gushed over things that had McCree neck stinging red – and not in a good way – he longed for a half empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s clinking at his feet and the spicy end of a teeth-ground cigar settled between his lips. Those familiarities, like old friends or skin-warm lovers, were currently unavailable in such ‘good’ company, and whilst Angela had countless nicotine patches that she waved mockingly over the bar, McCree let himself itch and squirm for tar in his lungs whilst Circueet’s artificial voice-box stuttered and jammed in ways it hadn’t hours previous.

Probably a side-effect of the reboot.

“Please,” he coughed out a whisper around the rim of his third shot of whiskey, which he cradled to his lips like a golden glass prayer that he wouldn’t be followed after finally escaping the wrath of Circueet talking about Ruscha or Hirst or Kusama or some other 21st century artist he didn’t know the name of. He did not feel at _all_ guilty for leaving an equally as lost Genji to flounder in his place as he wrenched out a stool and flopped down beside Hanzo. His head was spinning. “He won’t stop talking to me.”

“I think he’s trying to flirt.” Hanzo eyed his own glass of wine carefully, brows low and mouth curled cruelly. The atmospheric lighting of the bar had been dimmed since earlier, and his deep face was cast in burgundy triangles that curved and fell to perfection at every angle. McCree’s stomach was still tangled, but now it was acid, on fire, in a pool of gasoline.

“You _what_.” he grimaced, rapping his knuckles against the bar at the pace of a man possessed.

“Well, that’s the impression _I_ picked up.” Hanzo’s glass of wine reflected a dark purple shadow on his neck as he took each deep, precise sip, and McCree’s mind fell on thoughts of bruising. “One seems to start thinking a certain way when they are informed they were carried _oh so heroically_ to the emergency room by a handsome gentleman in a bolo-tie.”

Whether or not that sly devil tugging at the strings of his bolo-tie affected McCree or not, he would decline to disclose, but he attempted to be discreet when bringing his hand to his neck to replicate the feeling in hours to come. He would also remain stoic in regards to being called _handsome_ by the man who, objectively, was the reigning beauty pageant queen at Watchpoint: Gibraltar.

McCree let a lot of things bubble in the pit of his stomach for a second before swallowing it like a glassful of pit viper spit.

“For your sake I’m gonna forget you complimented me.” McCree began, anxiously settling into his stool like a toddler in a doctor’s waiting room: impatient, awkward, _begging_ for something to do with his hands.

“Why thank you.” Hanzo’s response came before McCree had the chance to finish, and his eyes flashed with mischief as he turned his chin coyly over his shoulder, “I can’t have anyone think that perhaps I consider you half-decent company, now can I.”

“Your reputation would be ruined.” his words were honey as usual, spilling and slick and deceptively smooth, but, a little too much like honey, they stuck to lips and made his throat sugar-raw. This honey was starting as chlorine in his oesophagus and he had no doubt if he continued to spew rotten fruit the whole party would be dead and blinded by midnight – and that wasn’t far off. But the bad meat in his head kept decaying, and the result was sweet-talk the scent of death, and that wouldn’t stop until the bad meat was on its way proper. “But y’know, uh,” he made it his own priority to evict it, “Can we talk? About this?”

A perfectly groomed eyebrow mounted the perfect marble arch of Hanzo’s forehead, and as he drained his wine glass and ordered another, a slightly _too_ boozy smirk tugged at his equally as perfect mouth. “What’s _this_?” he said.

With a wide gesture that almost knocked a cocktail out of Reinhardt’s huge hands, McCree scowled at the bustle surrounding them. The wild hoots and hollers loud enough to drown out the amped up band, the scents of liquor and tiny appetisers and expensive fabric carried on the late summer air, the thick, soupy space between them that made McCree feel like he was made of lead.

“ _This_. The mission. Artsy McMetal Nuts over there.” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder towards Circueet, who hopefully was not looking in their direction. “That’s _this_.”

“What of it?” Hanzo took a deep sniff of his wine, inspecting it with the hooded eyes of a man who truly didn’t care what he was about to drink, despite his apparent alcohol-snobbery when less inebriated. “Are you intending to play along with our lovely Sai Circueet?”

“Listen, if the fella wants to screw it’ll be a one-time event in an airport bathroom that he’s more than welcome to attend but _this_ – “ McCree poked at Hanzo’s chest, eliciting  a half-laugh half-hiccup, and drew his brows, “is one hell of a magical mystery tour, don’t you think?”

Shrugging, Hanzo swatted McCree’s hand away, his gaze sobering somewhat as their eyes met. He shrugged once, maybe twice more before finally sipping at his wine and sighing, “When you grew up amongst bastards and criminals you grow unbothered by the illicit nature of what goes on around you. So Winston was offered a shady tip from an unknown source? Not like it’s the first time any of Overwatch’s _factions_ have delivered on intel like that, is it?”

A bubble of uncertainty joined the little shop of horror’s congregating in McCree’s gut, and he turned his head, scrunched his eyes shut to forget the smell of water on the air in a rush of Venetian blood. Hanzo took the hint.

“Like I said. I’ve read your file.” the silence doesn’t hang for long, as Hanzo clearly saw McCree open his big stupid mouth from the corner of his eye, “And _yes_ I have read Reyes’s.”

His eye-contact was sympathetic, and McCree cannot tell if he was grateful or wanted to punch Hanzo in the face – maybe a little bit of both.

“For your sake,” McCree’s own words echoed on Hanzo’s tongue was the worst and best kind of cruel contrast, “I won’t take this conversation any further.”

His smile slipped back almost too easily, all pearly-whites and shiny lips back again now he was calling the bartender to pour McCree another strong shot of _something_ throat burning. The party in McCree’s intestines was beginning to harden.

“Now, we have a very generous and apparently rather _smitten_ omnic paying for our drinks and four more hours before Lena arrives to take us back to the Watchpoint.” Hanzo pushed a stacked tray of shots McCree’s way, his coffee ground eyes darker in the bar’s dim light, “So poison your liver and loosen up. Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me all this time?”

The alcohol in his mouth is hot and unbearable, so is the undulating mass of the crowd, the screaming space between his skin and his clothes, but with every shot tossed back like emptying a chamber Hanzo grows closer and closer to close the gap between his regal curve of a back and McCree’s tired barrel-chest.

So the night gets darker, and McCree keeps drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not dead. but i am amidst my exams, lacking creative motivation, and melting in an uncharacteristic uk heatwave, so whilst i may have new stuff to post, dont expect this to update too often.


	8. Chapter 8

McCree knew he had a tendency of following along with dreams until something _really_ odd kicked him into realisation.

His history of vivid, technicolour night schemes sometimes had him feeling like he was swimming through some kind of veil, a molasses like film between the real world and the world he’d left behind when he first took a razor to those pubescent wiry hairs at his jaw and in the same day stuck it between a fella’s ribs; watched him bleed out on burning Santa Fe asphalt and take a wad of cash from Deadlock’s greasy handed grunts.

Many of his dreams started that way, and, as a result, many of his dreams felt like taking a step back – a little too realistically for his liking – and staring down familiar faces across familiar desert scapes. Only the lights were too saturated: the sky far too _azule_ , the sand a striking _naranja._ Even the heat seemed to carry some funny kind of colour, like the gentle waves of pink gin or the ripple of perfume through warm air, that unsettled his sleep bound mind to no end.

The heat in this dream seemed green.

Tucked away in the only cool place he connected to his sand dry childhood, Uncle Ramirez’s green, green garden – kept that way only by no feasible number of sprinklers pumped with bio-chemicals and fertilizers stuffed with exotic and hard to pronounce new minerals – was a utopia of lush grass and overhanging trees. A verdant coppice that broke through New Mexico’s rust orange like a streak of paint still hanging on desperately to an aging pipe more than ready to crack in the next sunburst, it had always been a favourite place of McCree’s to visit.

When he was around nine, he had brought his friends there to climb the trees, and Uncle Ramirez and his boyfriend would bring them glasses of iced tea and plates of ham sandwiches. At twelve he would bring his homework there, sit on the bench beneath the apple tree and squint at his calculus or geography or whatever other useless subject he didn’t care about. He was smart, he knew that much, but a different kind of smart. An intelligence that longed to be challenged and grappled with, one that allowed him to be hands on and physical with his work.

The most hands on calculus required him to be was to have thumbs dexterous enough to hit every button on a calculator.

By the time he was fourteen McCree had stopped doing his homework altogether, was two warnings away from being into special measures classes with all the other _problem children_ , and couldn’t face going home and watching his _mamá_ look all sad doe-eyed at him over the dinner table. So he’d lie in the grass and watch the blue sky move past and his Uncle Ramirez would sit on the back porch in the rocking chair, thumbing the strings of the guitar he (tried) teaching McCree to play, and trying not to make those same eyes.

(He’d been somewhat bitter when, upon McCree’s official demotion to family disappointment during his recruitment to Deadlock, it became apparent that the teen had taught himself how to play multiple string instruments in between pointing guns at the temples of men twice his age and playing with fire and gasoline out on the rocky highways of Route 66.)

But in this dream, Uncle Ramirez’s garden was not cool. It was indeed green, but it reeked of heat. Body heat. Blood-warm, newly killed, soft animal corpse heat, which made McCree’s skin crawl and sing all at once.

He was young again, for one; tall and lanky and awkward as he’d been at sixteen, with gangly legs and a harsh triangle of a face and adhesive bandages all over his forearms. His jeans were snagged with barbs and there was just a slight blood-stain on his white t-shirt. The denim jacket tied snug around his waist smelt like heather and Scotch, and he held onto the heady scent of his father for just a second before letting the stench of greenery and warmth return to fill his head with dream-cotton.

Uncle Ramirez was digging a hole in the garden.

“You invite yourself over to help and you don’t even pick up a shovel.” his husky voice echoed out, always a little deeper than his sister’s, but still smoky and warm enough that hearing him made McCree’s chest ache for his _mamá’s_ cooking. “C’mon, Jesse, give your _tio_ a hand!”

When McCree didn’t respond, Ramirez dropped his shovel, turned to his nephew and squinted. This wasn’t the right Ramirez. Not time wise at least. This Ramirez had a handsome young face, with shiny brown eyes and the spackles of reddish freckles that everyone on the Mexican side of McCree’s family had. A Ramirez with this face would be bringing a ten year old McCree sweet drinks and board games, not staring down a vagrant sixteen year old with an inconsistent work ethic.

With a laboured sigh, Ramirez picked up his shovel again, muttering something vindictively in Spanish before getting back to work on his digging.

“Can’t believe you’d disappoint your father like that.”

It is the shock of the statement, rather than the need to respond, that had McCree’s chest swelling and almost bellowing out, “That ain’t fair - !” in the same voice every time someone would bring up his pa unwarranted.

It was the same feeling he remembered having seeing that portrait sitting on the coffin: his father’s big, gleaming grin – the only thing apart from the Irish charm that Sean McCree’s son had inherited from him – his clear blue eyes, the mess of orange curls that sat on his head like some kind of quirky beatnik knit hat gone awry.

Ramirez simply tugged his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to something McCree hadn’t noticed upon finding himself dreamily wandering his uncle’s garden.

A barn owl, bone-white faced and wide saucer-eyed, sat in the yawning branches of the apple tree, above McCree’s favourite bench. It seemed to shine like gold in the emerald light of the garden, its scaly talons flexing – gripping, ungripping, gripping, ungripping, at the branch it perched upon.

It tilted its head exactly once, curious in a way that felt a little too human for McCree, before lifting its great wings and sweeping away from the garden, seemingly melting into the strangely aqua sky above.

“See, you’ve gone and upset him now.” Ramirez grumbled, his digging continuing and the stench of death growing worse and worse as it seemed to fill up the garden like a tankard of gasoline. McCree felt like every time his lungs expanded, they earned a new layer of spongy red flesh, like the smell was growing in him.

“The…owl?” McCree choked around the scent, taking a few stumbled strides forwards to peer into the hole. No animal bodies, no bad meat – just dirt and roots and crushed plants.

“Don’t be rude.” Ramirez snapped, “You can’t talk about your dad like that.”

“My dad?” McCree found his voice felt tearful, although he knew it was not _him_ who was crying. Thirty-seven year old McCree had long ago come to terms with the fact that his illicit involvement with illegal gangs in the desert may or may not – but strongly leaning towards the may option – have had direct relation to the lead imbedded in his father’s skull, but sixteen year old McCree was still sucking on that particular bitter pill, and had also not started going by his surname yet. “My _dead_ dad? The owl?”

“Jesse?” Ramirez looked incredulously over his shoulder, face contorting with confusion. Except that’s what it had seemed at first, until the contorting became morphing, and his skin tone was a little deeper, beard a little thicker, and eyes a little more like a helpful stranger yet to make an appearance in his life. “You’re not supposed to know that yet.”

 

It’s not that McCree woke up in a cold sweat. More so that he was shaken awake by the clamour of too many old acquaintances ricocheting around his skull, and he almost fell out of the hammock he had claimed earlier that afternoon. Inside he can hear the echo of Genji’s laughter, either making fun conversation or having observed his cowboy friend almost hurl himself off the balcony.

He swung his legs over the hammock, squinting out to the ocean looking a little red as the evening drew closer.

His father’s hair had been more a copper shade than a cognac.

The balcony door slid open, that space-age hiss that had McCree thinking about 2000s _Star Wars_ movies and the way they’d flickered on his _abuela’s_ TV screen. He keeps his eyes on the horizon.

“Lena’s buying a round,” Hanzo’s voice reached his ears like a shout through water, “If you want to join us that is.”

“You goin’ to that new place openin’ in town?” McCree responded, not all there.

“Mhm. Free refills for opening night. We might need you to order for us, Reinhardt still pronounces _por favor_  as _pompadour_.”

McCree let himself smile only slightly at Hanzo’s almost perfect Spanish accent.

 _European though,_ he thought to himself, _that ain’t not Latin lilt._

“Ya’ll go ahead.” McCree said finally, searching for the shape of his father’s grinning eyes in the curling clouds, “I’ll catch up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short dream chapter that i like to call "i still have a raging hard on for symbolism but this time it's far more subtle"


	9. Chapter 9

There is something that McCree could always appreciate about catching drinks with Overwatch’s lovable ragtag team of magical misfits: when their time spent together wasn’t saturated with pistol reports or wounds gone burnin’ septic, conversation was always strange and easy. Strange like green Louisiana swamp dipping when he was seven, a little less poor, a little less sad, and bussin’ his way down south with his folks for the summer. Easy like the feeling of the pondweed against the souls of his little feet, the water filtering through his fingers in deep arrow head shapes.

 

Strange and easy was Lena’s humorous obsession with snakes, feeding it ‘til plump with stories of how just the fangs of some slitherers would give your complexion the colour and consistency of a swollen, bruised plum, or how a close encounter of the violent kind with a boomslang would have you leaking liquid iron from even the most private of orifices.

 

Strange and easy was sharing obscure – and occasionally, with enough bitter drink and burly courage in his system, suspiciously specific – home remedies with Reinhardt over the sticky tables of local pubs. Rub garlic cloves on mosquito bites to stop the itching, steep rose petals in vinegar to reduce the pain of a headache, chew a bundle of yarrow leaves and say piss off to toothache. Whether they’d use them or not in an occupation where anyone was barely a room away from a quick zap of the Caduceus or a humming yellow orb was neither here nor there, but rest assured they would tuck their shared tricks into a safe, albeit dusty and moth-bitten, section of their war-frizzled brains and pray one day their niche knowledge would paint them the glossy hero of the hour.

 

Drinks at Gibraltar’s newest addition to its holiday maker haven was no different.

 

Sol en la Playa had turned out to be a shabby chic, reclaimed wood, rusty nail sorta deal when McCree had guilelessly approached it earlier that evening. The kind of hipster bar that drew in both the young and old alike as long as cold beers and bottomless tapas were being served late into the evening. More than anything it seemed to attract rippling waves of tourists. Sol en la Playa was the town’s brand spanking new shining jewel of a rotten peach on the coast, and people wafted in like locusts.

 

It was a twenty minute or so walk from the Watchpoint, once past the rocky incline and horrific field of barbed wire and STRICTLY NO ENTRANCE signs that fended off urban explorers and penniless squatters from worming their way into official Overwatch quarters. Despite his head full of mothballs and bile from his green, green dream, McCree had found the walk pleasant enough.

 

A cool evening, with rolling breezes that weren’t too cold nor too warm, and a sky still pink with the syrup of sundown, McCree wished he had brought a pack of cigars with him. Pottering through town in his civvies and watching passers-by enjoy their sappy Spanish summer evenings made his lungs heave for tobacco. He just hoped he could bum a smoke from Hanzo, had he brought his own.

 

Cunning bastard he was, Hanzo had brought his own cigarettes, and when McCree spied the archer taking a compulsory smoke break outside the yawning doors of Sol en la Playa as he approached, he was able to ravenously breathe in the last, ashy moments before Hanzo stubbed it, crushed it beneath his boot, and offered a welcoming half smile from where he leant amongst the red and white blooms in the window boxes.

 

“Recovered from your fall?” he smirked, grinding his foot against the pavement once more for good measure before sitting forward to greet him.

 

“I was startled awake by a seagull, asshole.” McCree lied through his teeth, partly out of a nicotine starvation, although majorly because he couldn’t stop thinking about owls or the stench of dead meat. Hanzo’s face had felt like a relieving breath of fresh air the moment he saw it. “Stupid critters screechin’ out on the balcony, furrowed brows testament to the of course you were that wasn’t quite strong enough to break his lips. Making the conscious decision not to stare at Hanzo’s mouth (no matter how much of a great option that seemed to be at that moment in time) McCree gestured at the cigarette box in Hanzo’s jacket pocket.

 

“Spare a cig for a poor cowboy suffering withdrawals?” he clutched his hands together in prayer, played up his accent ‘til it slowed to a January molasses drawl. It got a quick, bark like laugh out of Hanzo, but nothing more, and he shook the box. No sound.

 

“Last one.” he toed the crushed cigarette that lay between their booted feet. “Sorry. Perhaps the second hand smoke will be enough to while away the hours tonight.”

 

Following Hanzo as he turned and shouldering his way through the door, McCree let a forlorn frown tug at his mouth, “Doubt it,” he squinted somewhat upon entering the bar, lights far too bright in comparison to the dim pinks of the evening outside, “Fella like me needs at least one lung completely full o’ tar to get through an awkward conversation, thought you’d figured that out by now Hanzo.”

 

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

 

Tobacco addiction long-forgotten by this point in the night, McCree found himself futilely battling the swaying nature of nausea courtesy of Angie’s nicotine patches piled like clean bedding on his arm. He pouted child-like at his beer, sipping it despite Angela’s complaints that it would derail the effects of the patch. Science his ass, he wanted a drink and he was going to have one.

 

Mellow violet and misty crescent moon, the night had grown gentle and cool, and – despite the good doctor’s best efforts - McCree had drunken himself into a misty halo of hollow beer bottles elbow-to-elbow, with Reinhardt at his left shoulder and Hanzo at his right, and Lena leaning cider breathed and exuberant over the table to shrilly question if he knew as much about scorpions as he did about snakes. He raged quietly against the fluffy buzz in his skull through the babble, and moved his mouth like a ventriloquist dummy to explain that a scorpion with larger pincers has less potent venom as his tongue weighed down his jaw like a block of spongy led.

 

“Which ones are the worst?” Lena ogles, her chronal accelerator clunking against the table with every clumsy tip of her chin. McCree feared that she’d lean a little too far and push some accidental button and be flung back into whatever dual-pistol-wielding-British-lesbian-pilot dimension she’d flickered in and out of before Winston latched her into that safety-blanket of an oversized wrist watch.

 

“Uh, can’t say I’m sure sweetie, we got way more snakes than stingers when I was a kid. Rattlers in the kitchen mostly.” he stumbled over a hiccup, “Which was real shocking the first few times.”

 

“You don’t know anything about scorpions?”

 

“Only really had to deal with Bark Scorpions, they ain’t nothin’ special really. Uh, have I told you about the pincer thing yet - ?”

 

“How about learning about yokai instead?” sounding about thirty seconds away from throwing himself out the nearest window, Hanzo levelled Lena a heavy-eyed glance over the lip of his glass, brimming with a pearly, unfamiliar liquor. “Let McCree catch his smoker’s breath for a moment.”

 

McCree mouthed hypocrite, playfully jabbing at the empty carton of cigarettes still poking through Hanzo’s jacket pocket. Hanzo ignored him, unmovable as he tended to be.

“What’s that?” Lena’s eyes lit up with curiosity, her lips curling in the churlish grin of someone already formulating outrageous questions in her head.

 

“Yokai.”

 

“Yeah, what’s that?”

 

Sighing, Hanzo dropped his glass to a soggy beer-mat and rolled his eyes in a manner that may have seemed rude had it not been for the tilt of his lips that read as heart-warmingly fond through McCree’s thick, possibly rose-tinted, gafas de cerveza.

 

“Yokai, meaning bewitching spectre amongst other alternate translations.” Hanzo’s dictionary voice had McCree snickering, which garnered him a (well-deserved) elbow to the ribs. “Monsters. The Japanese equivalent of your Bodmin Beast, if you will,” he turned his gaze to McCree, his mouth forming a grizzled line, “Or your – “

 

“Bigfoot? Mothman? Chupacabra?” he grinned, years of a warped teenaged obsession with American Cryptozoology hanging off his tongue like a stubborn droplet of molasses. The frown on Hanzo’s face was grim enough to match up to the greyest of Februaries. “Oh, don’t look at me like that Hanzo, I could go on like this for hours. Flatwoods monster, Fresno nightcrawler – “

 

“I was going to say Jackalopes.” The hand that placed itself over McCree’s mouth was a source of comedy for most at the table, eliciting a multitude of giggles from all directions. McCree however, seemed to momentarily blackout, dizzied at the smell of woody cologne on Hanzo’s wrist, the tough feeling of his work – and trauma – worn skin. He was barely able to drag himself out of the stupor to hear, “But clearly you will continue to prevail as a font of useless and childish trivia. Thank you, McCree.”

 

He tipped his hat clumsily, remaining breathless as Hanzo removed his hand. Lena’s giggling subsided as she leant back in her chair, examining the spots of dust that had settled on her glass.

 

“What’s these Japanese monsters then?” she grinned, clearly enthused despite her cool façade. If there was anything McCree had learnt from experiencing Lena Oxton’s bubbly cadet-hood, it was that she was a sucker for a story. Especially a spooky one. “Tell me the scariest one you got.”

 

“There is a monk who kidnaps children, and a ghost that eats human corpses.” That smartass little smile pulls at Hanzo’s lips, the same kind that McCree’s come to consider a staple attendee to Hanzo’s dark dark humour. Perhaps the rumbling in his stomach was the nausea, or maybe it was the butterflies throwing themselves against his belly. He couldn’t tell. At least not yet. “Not all of them are malevolent however. There are helpful yokai, like the akaname. That one cleans bathrooms by licking them.”

 

“Got stuck with a pretty shitty job, huh?” McCree laughed, punching Hanzo’s shoulder chummily. Hanzo simply swatted his hands away, smart smile steady.

 

“Are you ever quiet? Here I am trying to save you from the resident motor mouth – “ (“Oi, watch it.”) “ – and you still can’t resists a moment without butting in.”

 

 

“Why, I thought you considered me good company, sweetheart? What was it you called me? Half-decent company and a handsome gentleman in a bolo-tie?”

 

Lena’s chair gritted out sharply against the hardwood before Hanzo could snap back, and the fed-up look she gave them was enough to continue the silence. The air felt staunch for a moment before she laughed breathily, spinning on her heel towards the bar.

 

“Honestly, I try and make conversation and you two just go at it like always.” She winked as she peered over her shoulder, “Maybe make it a little less obvious when you flirt, will you? It’s almost painful lads.”

 

Whilst McCree would like to say the night continued smoothly, unhitched and adrift on good drinks and pleasant conversation, he’d be a fool to not admit that something shifted between the sweaty headspace that was currently beginning to dissolve between himself and Hanzo. Maybe Hanzo didn’t care, of course he didn’t. Hanzo never cared. He was a monolith of cool, calm, and collected, even if many a late-night confidence with Genji had revealed that his expressionless face and loose posture was the shiny wax shell of a lonely, crumbling man. He couldn’t care. He wouldn’t.

 

Flirting? They weren’t! Not really. Was that not how he and Hanzo always spoke, with an air of playfulness and ham-fisted goofs?

 

Clearly Lena just didn’t know how their friendship worked. Of course, she rarely spent time with either on their lonesome, let alone together, how was she to know how they communicated.

 

Perhaps their friendship was not exactly what was expected of two middle-aged murderers trying to reconcile in a drinking buddy. Sure, but neither of them were that gritty. McCree would be the first to admit his own bravado, his ability to make fun of his own serape’d cliché. And even if Hanzo could hold the cold-blooded stare of a careless killer, he still took a considerable amount of time fixing his hair and choosing just the right shade of black t-shirt in the morning.

 

It was 2076 for Christ’s sake. Two gentlemen could engage in a friendship that was more than just swearing at each other and drinking bad beer.

 

Hanzo’s impeccable physique had nothing to do with it. Nor did his perfect cheekbones, or his shiny black hair, or the deep coffee-ground colour of his knowing eyes, the way they drooped kindly when he was tired and weary, the regal angles of his sharp nose and his thick brow.

 

McCree absolutely did not find the cerulean curves of his tattoo around the bulge of his bicep distracting, nor did he often find himself staring at the way his back curved elegantly, or the corded muscle of his powerful thighs.

 

Absolutely. Not.

 

Except that’s what swam on his head the entire sluggish meander back to the Watchpoint. Up that damned stupid hill and into the dreary hallways. The light above his dorm-room flickers and Athena informs him gently that she will have it fixed by morning.

 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He muttered half-heartedly to the AI, punching his passcode clumsily into the pad. An error sound, an access denied alert. God damnit, the man who could hit consecutive bullseyes half-dead and crying couldn’t type in his own passcode drunk.

 

“Agent McCree, would you like to submit your passcode verbally?” Athena droned kindly.

 

“Yes…please, thank you.” Slurring out a string of numbers, McCree shouldered his way into his room, eye twitching. Nose wet.

With the lights down and the windows thrown open, his tiny dorm was illuminated in blue-silver, looking like a snapshot of a lightning strike, or a moment of perfection in some far away person’s quiet dreams. The stern shape of his desk; the scattered newspapers and receipts and notepapers on the floor; the line of a sweet little cacti on his windowsill, all somewhat ethereal in starlight and darkness.

 

He stumbled to his bedside, kicking of his boots and tugging his shirt over his head as he went.

 

“One last thing,” he yawned to the ceiling, waiting for some little blue light somewhere to twinkle, a signal that Athena was listening, “Can you send a voice message to Agent Shimada’s comm for me, honey?”

 

“Which Agent Shimada do you wish to talk to, Agent McCree?”

 

McCree’s mouth felt gummy and tart as he unbuckled his belt, shucking his jeans and underwear before slipping beneath his duvet, a filthy remnant of mediocre beer from Sol en la Playa. Athena waited patiently as he settled into his bed.

 

“Hanzo.”

 

“Now recording voice message for Agent H. Shimada, you may speak after the tone.”

 

A low beep vibrated through the ceiling, and McCree wondered if that sudden spike in his stomach was from the return of the nicotine patch nausea, or the idea of leaving such an intimate voice note for Hanzo at this time of night. He bit his tongue and sucked it up, muffling his voice somewhat in the pillow, vainly hoping that Athena’s hypersensitive sensors wouldn’t be able to pick up on his whispers – they absolutely would.

 

“Howdy…Hanzo…” he breathed awkwardly, to no one. Just himself, Athena, and the walls. “I, um, sorry? I feel like that was awkward, earlier. What Lena said. I for one never really thought I was…y’know, flirting. But if it came off that way I…” he started at the ceiling for a second.

What if he did want it to come off that way?

 

“I was just jokin’ around with you. Y’know, like we do.” A hard lump had formed beneath his tongue, and suddenly McCree’s gut was full of bricks and he wanted to vomit all over his sheets. He began tearing the nicotine patches off his arm, leaving them to curl uselessly at the foot of his bed. “Didn’t wanna overstep no boundaries. Sleep tight, bud.”

He let the hard lump settle a moment, leaden like poison in his belly.

“Send voice message, Athena.”

 

“Message sent to Agent H. Shimada. Good night, Agent McCree.”

 

“…Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so sad, athena play despacito


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the lack of accents where they should be on the Spanish - copy paste is for some reason removing them

If Hanzo received the drunken voice mail, he did not mention it the next morning.

Or the morning after that, or the morning after that. McCree was almost foolish enough to hope that perhaps he'd never checked his comm, accidentally wiped his messages before listening to them and let that embarrassing piece of inebriated history pass away untouched.

 _Almost_.

They are set on a duo mission for Mexico: two nights of undercover surveillance in Dorado intended for keeping a close eye on Lumerico, searching for any Vishkar activity in the area, and - if time allowed - indulging in a little bit of homegrown culture. McCree almost felt excited, for all the time he spent in Dorado most of it passed in a rather hazy manner. Usually because he preferred to take the high path to reach Castillo, really up the numbers on his tab in _Calaveros_ , and then leave cross-eyed, messy footed, and, occasionally, missing an item of clothing.

He tended not to bring up _the incident_ in which he almost died smuggling himself into a _Los Muertos_ truck disguised as a drug-donkey so he could retrieve his beloved hat, which he had accidentally left in said familiar bar after one very depressing Christmas Eve spent with no company but the bar tender and every other friendless loser who had no better way to spend the holidays than by drinking.

This time, however, he intended to enjoy himself.

"This isn't a _holiday_." Hanzo spat as they packed up the Orca, pushing their trunks, full of gizmos and gadgets, carefully hidden amongst their civvies and toiletries, into the overhead carrier. "As much as Winston insisted we bring the appropriate sunblock - we _do_ have a primary directive."

Buckling himself into his seat as the craft began to rumble with the force of take-off, McCree offered his best charming smile and a wink before saying, "Every day is a holiday with you, sweetheart."

"Ridiculous." Hanzo barked back, although his smile was good-natured. He settled in the seat beside McCree, tugging a holopad from his satchel. "What is our cover again?"

"Mateo and Hiroshi," he nodded towards the document Hanzo was opening, an extensive write-up that Winston had emailed to them both, detailing both their mission and their coverup story. "You're a writer working on a piece about Latin American culture, I'm your helpful guide and ever faithful best friend." McCree pouted and rested his chin in the V of his hands cupped together, "Just like real life."

With a grunt, Hanzo pushed McCree's face out of his own with an uncaring hand, "You _wish_ you were helpful to me. A friend, perhaps," he paused, smirking cruelly, "but a _very unhelpful_ one."

"You wound me, Hanzo." The rumble of the Orca breaks to a steady whir as the craft reaches altitude, and McCree unbuckles his seatbelt and kicks his legs up as soon as the alert light deems it's safe to do so, "And here I was thinking helpin' you pack your case this mornin' was an act of chivalry."

"Helping!" Hanzo said incredulously, unbuckling his own belt before drawing his knees up 'til they were criss-cross against his chest, "You sat on the suitcase so that I could zip it up. The only helpful thing you did was be heavier than me." Ignoring McCree's feigned offense of raising his hands to his mouth in shock, Hanzo began swiping through the holopad, clearly not actually paying attention to anything that was on the screen. "Besides, I don't think the term _chivalrous_ is applicable when the act occurs between two men. It's something of an archaic term."

"Oh, and you'd know all about those, huh?"

"Shut up, McCree."

 

They land in Mexico around 6:30 and take it in turns getting dressed into their civvies in the Orca's tiny onboard bathroom. Whilst McCree is not proud to admit that the bruises he will be finding on his body some days later were from multiple altercations with the toilet roll holder, he feels he scrubs up very well in his cover clothes. In a pair of comfy trousers - cut slightly too early for McCree's taste, never a man to show his ankles - the colour of tea, and shiny Oxfords that didn't make his feet look like those of a giant clown as most shoes tended to do, he felt rather spiffy. Not to mention the short-sleeved button up that had been haphazardly picked out by Genji (from a collection that apparently, and inexplicably, belonged to Zenyatta) was a size or so too small, and hugged his shoulders and chest flatteringly.

When he donned the large, wire glasses that had been included in the pack, the man looking back at him through the mirror was _certainly_ the kind of person to drag people around the small towns of his home country like some kind of underpaid, overqualified tour-guide.

Hanzo, perhaps, drew the short straw.

"Hey now, you're supposed to look like a tourist!" McCree called after Hanzo's retreating, Hawaiian shirt clad back, choking on his own laughter, as they tumbled out of the Orca together. "And this look certainly sells that to me!"

Turning with the rage of a thousand tropical storms in his twitching left eye alone, Hanzo was somehow hard to take seriously when he was all decked out in a bright yellow Hawaiian shirt, denim shorts, and scuffed hiking boots. So much so that McCree may have burst into laughter right then and there were it not for how genuinely adorable Hanzo looked with his buttons done all the way up and ankles swimming in shoes clearly three sizes too big for him.

"Know this," He pointed at McCree fiercely, his brows drawn low and tight, "If, after this mission is over, _any_ images of me in this outfit, or any of the other _monstrosities_ Genji has prepared for us," he reached up suddenly, grabbing McCree's collar, "surface and begin circulating amongst our co-workers, you are my _number one suspect_ and I _will not hesitate_ to take direct action in claiming my revenge."

He let go, brushed his chest off, and picked up his suitcase, suddenly mild-mannered once more.

"Are we ready to check into our room?"

Laughing breathily, McCree righted himself, giving his collar some tugging of his own 'til his neck felt a little less red. He clumsily grabbed for his own suitcase, and obviously missed the handle twice before picking it up.

"I believe we are, Hiroshi."

"Well I suppose you better lead the way, Mateo."

 

 _Casa de la Cigarra_ , Winston's hotel of choice for Hiroshi and Mateo's educational weekend, turned out to be a pretty, albeit decrepit, guest house that lay at the end of a hidden track just ten minutes away from Dorado's colourful town centre. Painted almost the exact same shade as Hanzo's shirt and sitting in the shade of many crowded lemon trees, McCree had half the mind to crack a joke about being a fruit, although he'd come to value his remaining arm, and as a result, decided against it.

The noise that shrouded the guest house seemed to shatter any semblance of peace that the quaint little house may have suggested. Loud, incessant chirping burst from every direction, and as Hanzo pushed his way through the front door, McCree complained,

"I see why they call this place _cigarra_."

"Hm? Why, what does it mean?" Hanzo held the door open as McCree followed, tossing his suitcase up against his chest as he attempted to fit his cargo through the narrow entrance. The tapping of their shoes on the tiled floor echoed into the dim foyer.

"Cicada." McCree responded, searching the foyer for any sign of life. There was an empty reception desk, occupied only by an open guest-book, a bell, and a small, early-mark holopad left open on a Google search of how to fill cracks in concrete. "They never shut up once they're out 'n' about."

"I see."

Placing their bags at the front door, Hanzo paced forward and slapped his hand onto the bell. The tinny noise resounded through the empty foyer in a way that caused McCree to suspect Winston had booked them into an abandoned establishment. It was only a few moments, however, before the sound of footsteps shuffling down stairs reached his ears.

McCree found that, if he squinted, he could spy said stairs hidden in the dimness of the space behind the desk, and a pair of legs ambled their way down as he attempted to make the approaching figure out in the darkness. He wondered if it would be rude to suggest getting better lighting, and then decided it was definitely rude when he saw that the figure clattering down those steps was a soft faced old lady in a fluffy blue dressing-gown.

She smiled welcomingly and leafed through a stack of papers on the desk,

" _Hola senores,"_ she muttered through a gummy mouth, "¿ _puedo ayudar?"_

Falling effortlessly into character, as usual, Hanzo looked to McCree nervously, mouthing like some kind of helpless, floundering tourist. Wow, Hiroshi seemed _awful_.

He supposed Mateo would just have to be charming enough for the both of them.

With a campy flourish of a wave and suave lean onto the reception desk, McCree introduced their insufferable personas, requested their rooms keys, and even slotted in a good-natured flirt all in one short-lived spat of Spanish.

" _Mi amigo es un turista_." He stage-whispered to the woman, who he learned was named Rosa, and ran the guest-house with her wife Juanita. " _Tendras que_ _disculpe su pobre espanol."_

Rosa laughed kindly and handed over their jangling keys as she marked them down in her book.

" _Por supuesto."_ She responded, leaning her short little body over the desk as she watched her new tenants collect their bags and head towards the second staircase, to the right of the desk, " _Buenos noches, chicos_."

McCree wished her a swift good night and thudded up the stairs after Hanzo, his head bobbing as he went. The upstairs was painted a muted peach colour, every inch of wall plastered with vibrant paintings of the Virgin Mary, or moth-bitten tapestries of the Mexican countryside. Meeting the gaze of every stony-eyed religious figure that passed, McCree tried to ignore the musty smell and the dark stains on the ceiling.

"I know you were talking about me." Hanzo said suddenly, halting outside a dark wood door with a small number 12 painted on it in flaking white paint. He thumbed through their ring of keys - one for their room, one for the downstairs bathroom, and another for the apparently "lovely little suntrap" of a garden house that McCree suspected was just as rife with wood-rot as the staircase balustrades had appeared to be - before jamming them into place. "I heard the word _amigo_ and whilst I hate to sound shallow I know I am one of the few you have."

"I was tellin' lovely little Rosa how large that stick up your ass is." McCree let Hanzo enter the room first, and did not miss the confused expression that flashed over Hanzo's face, lying somewhere between the threshold of amused and offended.

"Oh really?" Hanzo hoisted his case onto the bed and began unzipping it, "And what did Rosa think about that - "

"Well, she said it was unfortunate - "

"McCree."

" - because a fella who dresses like _that_ \- "

" _McCree."_

" - won't be gettin' anything _else_ up there - "

"Jesse!"

"What?" McCree snapped, meeting Hanzo's troubled gaze from across the room. His expression looked cloudy, like trying to spy the sun through layers of mist on the shore. McCree's stomach dropped somewhat. "Are...Are you okay Hanzo?"

For a moment Hanzo appeared elsewhere, as though his mind had gone walkabout mid conversation. His jaded eyes were fixated on the creases his case had contoured into the sheets and it was only when McCree patted his frozen hand that Hanzo seemed to come back to earth.

"Yes! Yes, I am fine, sorry." Coughing, Hanzo crossed his arms and avoided eye contact, "It is simply...there is only one bed."

Oh.

 _Oh_.

That hadn't quite processed yet. McCree eyed said bed, made with blue-checked sheets that smelt like flowery detergent and that typical hotel musk. It was easily large enough to fit the two of them, yet the notion of sleeping side by side sent McCree's mind reeling.

Hanzo still looked dazed, which McCree wasn't entirely sure what to think of, and decided he would take it upon himself to settle those rustled jimmies, as it were.

"I don't mind sharin'" he shrugged, "slept in a sleepin' bag with three other fellas once back in my Deadlock days; I can fall asleep just about anywhere with anyone." A thought occurred to him, "Unless of course you ain't comfortable with that. I can always set up shop on the floor, like I said, sleepin' anywhere - "

"No I cannot - " Hanzo shook his head, clearly biting the inside of his lip as he looked unsurely around the room, "I cannot let you sleep on the floor, that would be rude of me. I have no problem sharing, McCree, I just..."

They let the silence settle, two men accustomed to things that are - often - a little difficult to get off their chests.

"On occasion," he sighed, "and more frequently when I am in an unfamiliar place, I experience awful nightmares." Hanzo finally let his gaze match McCree's, and seemed apparently grateful for the understand he found there, "I have been know to...call out...kick. I, I am sure you know how it is."

Nodding sympathetically, McCree dragged his case up aside Hanzo's on the bed and began unpacking. He thought perhaps if he appeared as nonchalant as possible about the predicament, he could perhaps stop Hanzo's clouded little head from running away with him. "I have night terrors myself from time to time, sweetie. Ain't nothin' to be ashamed about."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." He grinned, removing piles of clothes and towels from the case, "Now, considering our mission don't _officially_ start 'til tomorrow, what say you we go find somewhere to have a nice dinner?"

 

 

Before venturing out to find a restaurant or cafe, Hanzo insisted on changing his clothes. Whilst _nothing_ in his case was particularly appealing, the ill-fitting white polo-shirt and grey jeans he found crumpled up at the very bottom of the case were better than every other loud, ugly pattern that seemed to saturate his wardrobe for the weekend.

He managed to save it somewhat by tucking in the shirt and rolling the ankles of the jeans and, by the time the two had settled at a secluded table on the wide patio of a dimly lit tapas restaurant, McCree might have gone so far as to say that they looked a rather fetching pair scanning their respected menus.

"I thought tapas was a Spanish meal tradition?" Hanzo asked, seemingly intrigued by the fried calamari and chorizo cooked in red wine.

"It is." McCree scoffed over the top of his own menu, "Remind me tomorrow and I'll take you somewhere for a _real_ Mexican feast. _Burritos, enchiladas, quesadillas,_ everything you can think of."

"Whilst that sounds delightful I'm not sure my delicate digestive system would forgive me for that."

"Delicate? Excuse me for doubting that but I refuse to believe a man who spent ten years living off nothing but his own self-loathing has a _delicate_ digestive system." He pointed at Hanzo with a grin, "Every man with a bounty on his head has drunk water straight outta a gutter at some point, Hanzo, that's just how it goes."

"I went the first twenty years of my life assured that every meal I'd ever eat would be cooked for me." Hanzo smirked and the glinting fairy light strung around the patio made his dark eyes look like pools of gold. McCree withheld a gentle sigh, "I spent my first night alone unafraid of assailants due to self-defence lessons I'd had forced down my throat since I could walk...and yet I went hungry because I'd never seen a meal that hadn't come in the hands of a maid."

"Nicer problems to have." McCree mumbled. He only laughed when Hanzo hit him with his menu, knocking his fake glasses slightly askew. "Alright, alright I get it. Y'know the first night I ever went hungry it was because my papa'd been shot."

The shock that briefly crossed Hanzo's face was to be expected, McCree had become accustomed to that reaction to the surprising control he had over the knowledge of his father's death. It was fine. It always had been. When you're raised into a town run by bullets and motor oil it becomes a given that _someone_ in your family will be taken down with a fistful of lead in the back of the skull. McCree was just unfortunate enough to know the exact, gory, gritty intricacies of the butterfly effect that led to his own father being knocked down in broad daylight and left to rot in the desert.

Sean McCree's body had been found by a family travelling north for the summer and returned to town sunburnt and blistered, almost too red and popped for mama to identify him spread out like roadkill in the morgue.

McCree considered himself lucky to have morbid friends like Hanzo.

"Fitting, for a man like you, I suppose." He responded eventually, folding up his menu. "I'm ready to order, are you?"

"I'll reckon I am."

McCree swiftly flagged down a waitress, flashing her a white grin and ordering a sharing platter of calamari and chorizo, alongside a cheese and ham selection and two sizable glasses of sangria. Their waitress hummed along, jotting down their orders and leaving them with a polite affirmation in Spanish, spinning on her red heels.

As it tended to be, their conversation ambled seamlessly from the dark to the ridiculous without any sign of discomfort or pause. It was pleasant, even, sitting beneath a deep purple sky, letting the yellow glow of fairy lights wash over them, indulging in silly conversation between friends as the breeze carried salty and fresh from the sea.

When a different waitress arrived with their sangria, McCree watched Hanzo take an experimental sip - ( _"_ _I've never had sangria before." He had hissed as the waitress departed, "What if I don't like it?" "I'm sure you will. And, well sweetheart, if you don't, I'll just drink your glass."_ ) - and felt himself smile like a real fool when the other man's face lit up with surprise.

For more than a while, McCree was content to watch Hanzo relax. When he was not frowning, or making sharp jokes, or tossing back shots of sake on the roof, Hanzo's handsome face was that of a much younger man. His smile, McCree felt, made him feel much younger in turn, and for every time he saw that rare, beautiful sight, he wished he could reach out and trace the lines of the newly appearing laugh lines around his bird-like nose.

God, he was so sickeningly _gone_ for this gorgeous bastard.

 

The two finished their meal in what McCree thought must be record time, clearly a lot more worn out and hungry from their flight than they had first assumed. Well, whilst McCree had gratefully wolfed down his half of the sharing platter, Hanzo had - at first - taken the time to appreciate the new flavours and textures, experiment with different combinations of ham and cheese, wash down his food with a refreshing glass of sangria.

However, men can do nought else but fall victim to hunger when their stomachs _really_ start begging, and Hanzo was soon enough snarfing down his share in much a similar manner to his starving partner.

After paying, McCree insisted he take Hanzo for a walk on the beach.

"Not to sound like a bad joke about a dating profile," he had grinned, tucking in Hanzo's chair behind him like the gentleman that he, quite frankly, was - despite anything Genji may say - and leaving a tip laid atop the folded menus. "But Dorado's beaches are gorgeous this time o' night and I'd feel like I was robbin' you of a good damn experience if I didn't give you a tour."

He had looked hesitant at first, but, eventually, Hanzo gave in, humouring McCree as they started their stroll towards the shore by muttering, "I suppose touring _is_ what you're supposed to be doing, isn't it, Mateo?"

The beach was better than he remembered. Truth be told, the last time he'd ventured down here had been maybe four or so years ago, he'd been blackout drunk, and had probably arrived with the intention to either walk into the ocean (and drown) or lay face down in a tidepool (and drown).

Now, as the last holiday-goers were packing away their towels and swimsuits, and the moon was casting long silver shapes across the dark waters and pale sands, McCree felt as though he'd wandered into a still, formless memory.

The air was not cold, but cool enough to make the hairs on his arms stand to attention against the gentle buffet of the breeze. If he were to close his eyes and block out the sounds of the crashing waves, he could almost imagine himself, sixteen and hell-bent on ruining his own life, standing with his arms outstretched like a vagabond Jesus alone in the middle of the sacred New Mexico desert.

Problem was that beach sand is a whole different feelin' to desert sand, and the sound of a couple someways down the beach _clearly_ getting frisky were somewhat distracting.

"You were right." Hanzo said eventually, breaking the silence that they had seemingly unconsciously agreed upon. Without announcement he dropped to his knees, placing his hands firmly in the dry sand, watching the granules run through his fingers like dusty cousins of water. "Though I suppose the moonlight does tend to make things prettier."

Thumping down beside him, McCree nudged Hanzo's shoulder like an obnoxious child vying for attention.

_There wasn't much difference, after all._

"Even little old me?"

"I am afraid to say, McCree, that even with the moon's aid there is no hope for you."

Pouting playfully, McCree accepted that particular snippet of banter like a bee-sting and returned to watching the waves crest and fall.

"Of course," Hanzo continued, "No hope, as we all know, there is no improving upon perfection."

"Awhaw, you." McCree giggled to the ocean, a little too red in the face to brave meeting Hanzo's gaze, "Right near enough swept me off my feet there, Shimada."

_You already have._

"I'll make sure future compliments do not debilitate your ability to remain upright."

"I got a real impressive list goin' now, huh? What am I to you?" McCree smirked, hoping maybe he could serve a curveball here. Although he reckons he'd be the luckiest man alive if he ever got to see Hanzo Shimada blush. "Half-decent, company, handsome fella in a bolo-tie, _and_ perfect? Well, if I didn't know any better Mr Shimada I'd say you had a little crush on me."

He felt like a parrot screeching at its own ridiculous, clown-coloured reflection.

"Gentleman. I said that you were a handsome _gentleman_ in a bolo-tie." Hanzo said, "Rude of you to assume I would _ever_ say the word _fella_ were it not in this very instance or in some other attempt to mock you."

"Wouldn't dream of it sweetie."

 

 

When they returned to the hotel, their shoes were full of sand and their hair all swept up and Lena-like by the salty wind. Hanzo frowned at his reflection in the bedside mirror, and worked at tamping down his locks, only to find that they stuck up stubbornly around the shaved sides of his head like a hairy crown of thorns.

While Hanzo battled with his hair, McCree retreated to the bathroom to slip off his clothes. The tightness of that shirt proved to only be a perk when it was on, as the moment he had all the buttons popped he was stretching and pulling in every direction to relax his weary muscles. Usually Mexico's heat would have him sleeping naked as he came, or at least stripped down to his boxers, but he assumed Hanzo would not appreciate being subjected to his horrifically hairy legs and chest in their shared bed tonight, and decided a loose grey t-shirt and his underwear would be cool enough to prevent him from dying of overheating in a bed beside a close friend who may or may not end up traumatised by the event.

He brushed his teeth and splashed his face with water, cracking the window to the bathroom so a draft could cool the room as they slept. A yawn cracked his lips, and when he looked to the clock, McCree saw it was barely even midnight. Well, travelling sure tires a man out, and today was no exception.

Unexpectedly - or, perhaps, as expectedly as wild things tend to happen in his line of work - McCree almost felt his heart stopped as he opened the door, stepping back into his shared room for the weekend.

He'd managed to catch Hanzo in a midway state of undress: his shirt hitched around his shoulders, exposing his chest and midriff, and his trousers half way down his legs. McCree averted his eyes as he rushed to the bedside, stuffing his folded-up clothes into the bedside drawer. Although Hanzo seemed unfazed, continuing to slip out of his clothes until he was essentially stark naked across the bed from his temporary roommate, McCree was sure all the blood in his body was simultaneously draining out of his eyes and rushing worryingly downward.

He only allowed himself to look back once Hanzo had pulled a tank top over his head, and even then, it was a Herculean task to not focus on the form-fitting briefs that he _knew_ Hanzo wore from catching glimpses in the locker room but only now did they seem _so much more interesting_.

McCree was the first to settle into bed, pulling the sheets up to his neck just like Catholic school told him not to, and watching with morbid curiosity as Hanzo approached the bathroom. He heard the _clunk_ of the lock sliding into place, and listened for the _ssshh_ of running water as Hanzo brushed his teeth and washed his face.

Familiar with Hanzo's extensive night-time routine (something he'd learned from a very boring conversation between him and the resident good doctor when McCree was sent to the medbay to be near enough overdosed during a monthly check up and Hanzo had wanted to tag along to mock his drugged, hazy state) McCree knew that it would be at least ten minutes before Hanzo reamerged. First he would brush his teeth, then swill his mouth with water, and then brush his teeth again. Then he would wet his face with just water, followed by a generous coating of some fancy fruity face-oil cleansing bullshit. After that he would brush his hair, spray it with something that smelt like pink flowers - a fact that McCree _definitely_ didn't know from catching whiffs of his hair in passing - and then brush it through again. Finally, he would open his window wide, smoke a bedtime cig or two, and then brush his teeth for the third time.

It was endearing, almost, to imagine a ruthless killer, Hanzo Shimada, the man who murdered his own brother, carried an ancient Japanese legacy on his shoulders, and was now fraternising with the illegal ranks of Overwatch, taking a generous amount of time to ensure he was squeaky clean before bedtime.

He understood, he supposed, that a veritable prince held some level of nostalgia for pampering himself when he felt he deserved it. A moment of peace and quiet, late at night reserved just for himself, full of smelly soaps and oils and a lot of time spent staring at himself in the mirror.

The mirror part was probably a given for Hanzo, but McCree assumed that if he had a face like that he'd enjoy looking in the mirror as well.

McCree assumed a lot about Hanzo and his pretty face, much more than he'd ever admit to anyone. It felt like torture sometimes, to have Hanzo within such close reach, always up for a session of binge drinking or chain smoking or self-deprecating jokes, but never close enough to brush fingers, or bump shoulders, or, God bless, sneak kisses and touches when the team weren't looking.

He thought about _that_ all the time.

In the darkness, the bathroom door creaked open, and a stripe of orange light falls across the sheets, temporarily blinding McCree before he hears Hanzo's soft voice approaching.

"My apologies if you were sleeping." The sheets shifted, and McCree could suddenly feel an acute change in warmth. There was a living body, breathing, soon to be sleeping, beneath the covers beside him, and it belonged to possibly the most beautiful man he'd ever had the pleasure of sharing a depressed drink with. "And...apologies in advance if I kick you in the night. Sleep well, McCree."

"You too, honey."

He allowed himself that special privilege, using one of those damned pet-names, something he wouldn't think twice about most days. But calling Hanzo _honey_ as they shared a bed felt so much like a private moment of intimacy, something he could hold onto forever - something no one else would ever hear.

"Oh, and, if you hear me...just...if you hear me in the night, ignore me. The nightmares tend to pass."

Ignoring Hanzo in any shape or form felt like a cardinal sin in McCree's head, but he was sure he'd feel worse if he disobeyed Hanzo's wishes.

 

Sleep didn't come easy. Just Hanzo's presence beside him made McCree's head swim, and at some point in the night he resigned to lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, dead to all the world save for the small part of it that was warm and alive with the gentle rise and fall of Hanzo's slumbering breaths.

He will remember this, he thought, this strange, distracted feeling. A feeling like he was departed from the rest of the world around him. He was drifting, caught on some cruel cloud that hung him like a stupid, clueless puppet who had no handle on his own fickle emotions. It was almost like wandering through one of his strange dreams, except there was no smell of warm meat, only fruit and flowers from Hanzo's skin, and dusty detergent from the starched sheets.

The moment felt slightly less dream-like around three in the morning, as that was the time that McCree had decided to turn and stare at the alarm clock, and when he began to hear whimpering to his left.

Shaking softly, the mattress suddenly became a boat on the ocean, and as McCree turned over once more, he felt more than anything an overwhelming urge to soothe Hanzo's seasickness.

The soft cries that bled into the pillows made McCree's heart ache, the tremors that wracked Hanzo's shoulders, the way his form trembled in the shadows of the room: it all drove him wild. Dog-like, he felt, protective and open-mouthed - all teeth - to whatever it was that plagued Hanzo's dreams.

Whatever it was, Hanzo had told him: it will pass, and although McCree ached to draw this broken man into his arms, to hold him until he stopped shaking, until he had no tears left to cry, he would respect Hanzo's wishes 'til his final moments.

So McCree watched Hanzo's silhouette quiver, longed to hold him, and felt his lungs swell with guilt for as long as the nightmare lasted.

And long, long past that, into the green light of morning.


	11. Chapter 11

“ _In order to safely infiltrate Lumérico without drawing attention to themselves or their affiliations, Agent Shimada and Agent McCree will take part in the Public Access Dorado Lumérico tour, under the guise of their characters Mateo Lopez and Tanaka Hiroshi, at 1200 hours,”_

The garden of _Casa de la Cigarra,_ although foretold to be the motherland of a _lovely little suntrap_ of a garden house, appeared to be, whilst somewhat whimsical, the remnants of Mother Nature’s juice cleanse, in that whatever beautiful blooming mass of blossoms and pollen may have once flourished here once upon a time, it was now all a little…watered down. It thrived, despite this, with a wild, miniscule economy: the drooping eaves of heat-tired tree branches alight with the whistle chatter of bird song that lined the equally exhausted fences; all manner of colourful, although unruly and likely unwanted, wild flowers and piss yellow weeds breaking the powdery surface of both dry terracotta earth and cracked concrete contoured with lichens and scars; and of course, the everlasting, cacophonous screech of the establishment’s name sake, what felt like thousands of cicadas screaming to the blue honey sky above, biding their late summer time before they buried into the soil again.

McCree had grimaced when they’d first pulled back the creaking French patio doors and lain eyes upon the place. At any other time he’d consider it charming, a quaint, overgrown secret coppice of knee-high grass and near-death trees hidden behind the shadow of this mustard coloured colossus of a B&B. Carrying his and Hanzo’s shared tray of breakfast foods to the mildewed patio dining set had felt like swimming, especially since the table and chairs were inexplicably scattered amongst the tall grass, and whilst Hanzo darted about the garden collecting the furniture, and stomped a small section of grass down with his boots ‘til flat, McCree had stood like a hospitable scarecrow amongst the scraggly greenery until they had a somewhat habitable eating space.

Lined with a hastily painted maroon fence just tall enough to stop McCree from nosing into what looked like – on the left – an abandoned rockery garden and – on the right – a stretch of uninhabited forest – when he stood at his full height, the garden felt like a captured glimmer of wilderness. The garden house that they had been oh so delighted to finally see was a proud, if decrepit, little thing; clearly hand constructed, with meticulous care, mind you, and glinting like the edge of a knife as the sun hit its many dusty, cob-web smudged windows. With a grubby slate roof a shining periwinkle and a door slightly too small for its frame painted a blue just a few shades off, it appeared almost storybook like when placed amongst the weeds.

It was bearable.

Hot, untidy, mostly populated by itchy insects, but bearable.

Not to mention the lack of neighbours either side gave McCree a perfect excuse to slap his holo-pad down on his knee (causing the table and its fragile contents to shake only _slightly_ , as he put it, much to Hanzo’s chagrin) and read their mission statement aloud without threat of a highly skilled sniper emerging from the sad bow of a dying lemon tree. Given the situation they probably would have been covered in at least three layers of sticky leaves and had become a little too closely acquainted with some friendly cicadas, giving the overall image of a humorous lilt that had McCree almost wishing they were being spied on.

But that was beside the point.

Every now and then, as his bobbed his leg up and down at request of his constant tic, the holo-pad pushed against the edge of the rickety table, wrinkling the tablecloth, clattering the crockery, and deepening Hanzo’s scowl until he was forced to readjust their, almost certainly, antique tea set. Impressively, Hanzo maintained his gaze with the stack of buttered toast on his plate and waved his fingers for McCree to continue.

“ _Agent Shimada and Agent McCree should remain as inconspicuous as possible, take note of any suspicious activity and alert Watchpoint before actively using weapons: no shots are to be fired until confirmation is given from Watchpoint.”_

“Anything else?” Hanzo turned his nose slightly, deeming the patio table sufficiently straightened out enough and finally indulging in the first bites of his breakfast. McCree powered down the holo-pad and set it aside, surveying his own breakfast options as he went. He shook his head.

“Naw. Well, just a couple more paragraphs tellin’ us to keep our mouths shut, you know how it is.” He picked up his mug, taking an experimental whiff at the dark grounds and watching the way the weary arms of the trees that lined the garden sagged against the fence and formed a perspective forced half halo around Hanzo’s morning mussed – and yet somehow still impossibly pristine – head.

That impossibly pristine head remained so, and somehow seemed even prettier, as Hanzo’s frown stiffened somewhat and he began ripping the crust off his bread. Never took Hanzo for the fussy eater type, but then again, he probably had cooks slice the crusts off all his sandwiches well into his adult life.

If yakuza princes even ate sandwiches. McCree suspected that by the age of twenty Hanzo had never digested anything within the walls of his own home that wasn’t more expensive than his father’s employees’ lives.

“How do they expect us to collect substantial information when we can’t even ask any questions beyond tourist trite?”

“Winston’s still testin’ the waters with these missions.” McCree responded, swirling his coffee in inky little whirlpools at the bottom of his mug. He watched the bubbles crawl in sluggish oaky circles before taking a tentative sip and continuing, “Until he can find some bogus loophole in the law that allows even the teeniest smidgen of Overwatch activity, he wants every mission as lowkey as possible.”

“I wouldn’t call slaughtering Talon agents in London and high-end artist parties in Austria _lowkey_ ,” Hanzo finished his final piece of toast, picking the crumbs from his beard with careful fingertips, “Overwatch is a walking timebomb of an organisation. Sooner or later violent action will need to be taken and I doubt it will be amongst Winston’s best intentions.”

McCree did not hold back his laughter, reaching for a shiny crusted breakfast bagel and a shallow butter dish. He buttered his bagel thoughtfully, considering whether he should have serrano ham or smoked salmon, “The King’s Row mission wasn’t _technically_ Overwatch work. Were the law to have picked up on that – and I’ll remind you, Hanzo, my dear prickly friend, it _didn’t_ – Winston was within his rights to turn us over as guns-for-hire.” Serrano, he decided – smoked salmon’s nice ‘n all, but way too decadent for a man of his tastes - and clumsily pinched a bundle of the slippery red slivers from the platter sweet little Juanita had brought for them earlier that morning, “And Austria was strictly no offense. You know what, I’m pretty damn sure the only reason you were allowed to bring your bow with you was because nobody was brave enough to wrastle it off you.”

Huffing, Hanzo watched with what was probably a _little_ disgust at the grease on McCree’s fingers as he, so to say, went to town on his bagel.

In their scrubby little shared hotel room sat a worn guitar case wrapped in stickers and patches, and a fine leather briefcase with red stitching. They both knew full well that their respective ol’ reliables lay within, but to any outsider it was just the humorous companionship of clashing personalities that made those contrasting cases so very important.

McCree could tell that, from the moment they dropped on unfamiliar soil, Hanzo was itching to be armed. Although McCree doubted that Hanzo was ever _not_ armed, always strapped up with any number of knives or shivs or _something_ that he could stick in someone’s chest without having to think too much. Hell, leave Hanzo with something as innocuous as a tube of hand-cream and a bird watching guidebook and he could probably cause a concussion and some internal bleeding to any bastard unlucky enough to come into close quarters with the basest of fighting skills: blunt force trauma to the head.

“So.” Hanzo said eventually, pushing his plate into the middle of the table, shreds of bread piled high. “12 o’clock? That’s when?”

“We got two hours,” McCree gestured at the sun with two buttery fingers, where it managed to peek through the leaves, their sole neighbour, one that was more than welcome at that. “Enough time to stroll around town and sort out dinner plans I reckon.”

“Hm, treating me to that Mexican feast, are you?” smiling somewhat, Hanzo stood and tucked in his chair, throwing a wad of tissues at McCree as he went.

Snarfing down the last of his bagel, McCree wiped his hands dry.

“If you’re up for it.” He grinned in return, “My favourite place to eat round Dorado is _Fernando’s_. They do the best _horchata_ in town ‘n I’ll be damned if we leave before you try it.”

Hanzo waded through the thickets of unkempt grass towards the doors that led back into the cool, dark hallways of _Casa de la Cigarra_. He threw a distant look over his shoulder, to McCree, who followed, empty mugs and used cutlery in hand.

( _Juanita and Rosa, bless their hearts, had told them just to leave their dirty dishes out in the garden for them to collect later, but McCree considered himself nothing if not the helpful type and insisted in at least dropping off their knives and forks in the kitchen for a good scrubbing. At his insistence earlier that morning the two women had chuckled, waved him off, called him a_ sweet young boy who cared too much _and sent him on his way with an armful of continental breakfast.)_

“I remember I tried _horchata_ once when I was young. It was the rice type.” He held the French doors open, allowed McCree to duck into the backroom. _Casa de la Cigarra_ had apparently been built by and for rabbits, as McCree could barely make it through any doorway without the top of his thick skull being unforgivingly clipped by the wooden frames and their peeling white paint. “It was the first business trip I’d ever attended with my father.”

“Yeah? A teenager then?”

Taking an indulgent moment to imagine a teenaged Hanzo, McCree thought of all the old photos Genji had shown him in their Blackwatch days. It had been a real confusin’ cocktail of feelings to look at those: sat side by side on a roof top with your half dead best friend, looking at bloodstained memories of a debauched childhood on an early mark holo-pad that couldn’t go thirty seconds without flickering.

On the one hand, this stern faced, raven haired boy who shared laughs and family gatherings with an achingly joyful green haired vagrant was the man who ruthlessly murdered Genji. He was of the same blood that he’d thoughtlessly spilled. He was as cold as the distant looks in his eyes, the kind that, in blue-ish photos like these, made one look like a ghost superimposed into a memory.

On the other, he was painstakingly handsome: a younger, softer version of the Hanzo he knew today. With a thick, round chin, eyes always wide with nerves or thoughts or expectations, too much hair pulled back like a dark, elegant snake. He was swatches of orange and white, a walking advertisement of intimidation for the Shimada clan, a reminder to the citizens of Hanamura that a teenager walked among them who wielded more power in one blink than they could in a full year’s hard work.

McCree wondered if they would have been friends then. Had the brainwashed heir to the throne and the scummy denim and leather gang kid somehow stumbled into each other’s path.

 _Hmm_ McCree thought _I would have hate screwed him._

“Around eleven, actually, I think.” Hanzo counted the years on his fingers, his footsteps echoing through the narrow halls towards the stairs a testament to him being real, here, treading Dorado’s soils and not some phantom of a time that never existed. McCree dreamt so much these days he felt he had to pinch himself just because someone looked him in the eye. “The Clan were discussing a deal with a gang in Mexico City. An ungodly amount of cocaine was the subject, if you were curious.”

“Yum.”

“Hmm.” Hanzo chuckled lowly, “They were one of the more pleasant gangs I remember from my childhood. Ruthless, of course, they were a crime gang but...their goons were kind to me at least. The younger of them snuck me treats under the boardroom table.”

“You might wanna rethink that sentence, sweetheart.”

Hanzo sighed loudly enough to shake the walls around them,

“I was _eleven_ you absolute pig.”

And McCree laughed hard enough to rock the floor.

 

 

By quarter to twelve, the pair had dressed into their civvies – or rather considering Hanzo’s disdain for his current wardrobe, dressed into McCree’s civvies, stealing a blue henley, a denim jacket, and a pair of plain jeans in record time considering he simultaneously slam-dunked a fluorescent orange paisley polo into the waste paper bin beside their bed – and made their way into main town Dorado.

They strolled aimlessly, as tourist-like as they hoped to appear. Chatter and cooking smells and bright music filled the streets and whilst McCree felt something almost homely in the atmosphere of it all, Hanzo seemed tense as his own drawn bow. There was a constant apprehension there, McCree knew, one that was the ever-present knot in Hanzo’s neck that seemed to ease only when cooped up in private at Watchpoint or sharing time with Genji.

Although, McCree did take some pride in the knowledge that Hanzo’s hiked shoulders seemed to drop just so whenever they were together.

McCree had waved down the brightly lit front window of _Fernando’s_ perhaps a little too excitedly when he spotted its trademark greens and yellows from a few yards away. He almost sprinted to peek in through the glass, and practically started tearing up when he smelt spices and tomatoes drifting from the sweet little cherry red door. Hanzo seemed to have deemed it acceptable, scanning the outdoor menu with a nose only slightly upturned. He nodded slowly as his eyes darted back and forth, reading the options, and span on his heel when he was done, ambling towards a public bench surrounded by throngs of warbling grey pigeons as McCree continued to fawn over the window display.

Getting caught in a dizzying nostalgia-trip could wait, McCree thought, eventually peeling his eyes away from the extravaganza of a late breakfast feast occurring inside _Fernando’s_ , and he jogged to catch up with Hanzo who, by now, was watching the pigeons with curious intensity.

Spying a flourishing pink window box as he approached, McCree was struck with a sudden thought and tapped Hanzo’s shoulder hurriedly the moment he was within arm’s reach.

“So, Bastion’s garden. How’s that goin’?” he gestured towards the pretty blushing blooms and Hanzo squinted at them before muttering,

“Dahlias.” And then meeting McCree’s gaze. “Well. It is going well, I believe. I’m busier than I used to be, but I help Bastion water the flowers when I can. It gets terribly lonely up there.”

With a soft exhale, McCree nodded, and glanced towards the spiralling point of Dorado’s slow incline. Lumérico glowed like a medicinal green Christmas angel at the very top.

“I can imagine. Nice project for it though. I’ll admit I, uh, still find it kinda strange how much it loves them flowers.”

“You know it’s favourites?” Hanzo smiled smugly, watching the pigeons play tug o’ war over vegetable peelings and bacon rinds tossed from the restaurant scrap buckets.

“Them poppies you buried?”

“No.” Hanzo turned, prodding McCree softly in the chest. A breath caught somewhere in McCree throat, jabbing him in his soft, weak, romantic parts, when he spied that mischievous twinkle in Hanzo’s dark eyes. “Yuccas have to be kept indoors for the first two years of their lives, at least when they’re not wild, so I’ve been watering and tending to it in my room.” With a laugh, Hanzo passed by the pigeons, which scattered into nervous plumes of asphalt grey as he disturbed their battle, “Twice a week it visits my room to make sure the yucca is growing well. If I’m not in my room it waits in the hallway for God knows how long until I return.”

“Really?” stumbling to keep up with Hanzo, who had suddenly began making his way uptown with the fervour of a man on a mission – or, at least, a different mission -  McCree spoke dumbly to the back of his companion’s head. “They were just a silly gift I thought, well, y’know, you brought ‘em up and I thought maybe the big fella would like somethin’ a little different.”

“Really, McCree.” Hanzo glanced over his shoulder, a smile faint – but nonetheless perfect – on those sharp lips. “It seems to be your biggest fan. Now,” he broke the momentary eye contact to cast his gaze upward, seeking out the verdant glow of Lumérico. “I believe we have a tour to be hijacking.”

 

 

 

The Public Access Dorado Lumérico Tour ( _“It needs a shorter name.” McCree had huffed under his breath as he and the rest of the small crowd of tourists had been handed their pamphlets and maps_. _“They simply wanted people like you to understand.” Hanzo bit back, shouldering him through the main entry way, narrowly avoiding butting heads with a middle-aged woman in cat eye sunglasses and a floppy yellow sunhat._ ) was a two-and-a-half-hour trip of boring technical jargon, mindless civilian questioning, and nothing but pallid green walls and blasé employees for what seemed like miles and miles of sprawling corridors and control rooms.

When he and Hanzo had congregated outside amongst the humid swarm of loose-lipped tourists, the gargantuan building had appeared like a pale verdant spirit, looming over Dorado in a way that appeared not protective nor intimidating. Were Lumérico some kind of great, slumbering beast, with its gnarled mossy claws sets like roots into Dorado’s hilltop, McCree imagined that, once it awoke, it would not rise up and a destroy the town beneath its footfalls, neither would it coil around its citizens like some kind of scaly emerald wall.

No, were Dorado a creature, it would wake up, blink sluggishly at what wild colours and wonderful people milled about just miles from its heartbeat, and it would yawn. Licking its ancient cracked lips Lumérico would close its eyes once more and surrender to slumber, all the while leeching and leeching and leeching.

That’s what felt right.

Lumérico was a leech.

Greeted by a blank face gaggle of Lumérico employees, all decked out in mint and white, the tourist horde was split into groups of ten or so, all designated a guide and a heavy handful of pamphlets and maps. McCree couldn’t say he didn’t find the tiny postcard slipped in amongst the papers sweet. _Greeting from Dorado!_ Was cheerfully emblazoned over a vivid painting of Dorado by night, all pulsing blue and yellow, overseen by that unsightly green pyramid.

With an uninterested sniff, Hanzo handed his own copy of the postcard to McCree, ever knowledgeable of his companion’s compulsive habit to collect and hoard tiny snapshots of a life he otherwise would not be able to lead. McCree took it with a thankful nod, tucking both in his back pocket and shuffling in line alongside the other tourists.

“How is your collection going, by the way?” Hanzo asked, reaching out two fingers to adjust the fake glasses perched on McCree’s nose. He spoke low, kept a coquettish smile on his face, appearing to all those around them as a shy couple of travellers awkwardly interacting during their ten minute wait before the tour began. “What was the last inconsequential thing you picked up?”

“First of all, my collection is _wonderful_.” McCree responded, thinking fondly of his box of knick-knacks tucked into the bottom drawer of his desk. Stocked full of all sorts: post cards, stamps, cheap souvenirs, letters, stolen articles of clothing from the odd friendly shoulder who would offer him an unbiased shelter from the law’s dark eyes. It had become a form of solace, almost. “And the last thing was a martini glass I stole from that bar in Vienna.” He chuckled, “I’ve been drinking juice out of it at breakfast.”

“I did wonder why you were doing that.” Hanzo said, peering at the line ahead, which inched forward ever so slowly towards Lumérico’s entrance. “Although I had assumed you were simply trying to horrify Dr Ziegler.”

“Well c’mon now,” McCree pouted good-naturedly, “What’s a little banter between buds, eh?”

 

Had McCree not been hyper wired into inspecting every single curious movement or off-hand comment on that god forsaken tour, he probably would have fallen asleep about half an hour ago. Hanzo, however, seemed alert as always, deep into his Hiroshi character to the point of rapidly raising his shaky hand at least once every few minutes to ask a question so gratuitously varnished in long words and professional terminology that, although the tour guide beamed like a lone paper lantern in the night sky at his spiels, their accompanying tour group all looked at him with the gazes of dumbstruck deer crouching in the approaching headlights of _what did he just say?_

Said tour guide was currently in the throws of explaining to a bright-eyed Hiroshi how Lumérico’s environmentally friendly power sources could contribute to the decrease of poverty in Dorado. Bless her heart, she was clearly devoted to the company, probably hoping to work her way up in the ranks one day. She spoke about Lumérico like they were a band of superheroes, not a recently publicly humiliated power company. She had no idea that Hanzo was recording her every word and sending it off to Athena for vocal analysation that very moment.

Every now and then, as they shuffled through the glowing halls, Hanzo would nervously tug at the strap of his guitar case, scratch at the fuzzy underside of his head, or rub his knuckles like firesticks. McCree couldn’t tell if these tics were just Hiroshi being Hiroshi, or some complicated form of secretive communication that McCree had been oh so graciously uninformed of.

Or, worse, a messy amalgamation of both.

“Mateo?” he said eventually, falling back slowly from the rest of the group, ducking down to pretend he was tying his shoelace.

“We’re gonna fall behind.” McCree responded, leaning over him, “What’s up?”

“This information is incorrect.” He rose suddenly, hissing lowly into McCree ear. He stumbled over his actions, fumbling at McCree’s collar and tucking loose strands of hair behind his ears, doing anything to look like a nervous Tanaka Hiroshi going about his awkward quirks. “Dates. Names. I read almost every official report and file that Athena had available before we left, I have these things _memorised to the spelling_. There are minute discrepancies, things the general public wouldn’t pick up on.” He turned around, a wide smile on his face as he began to catch up with their guide, “Either she’s not as good as her job as she wants to be,” he dropped his tone once more, voice so low and quiet McCree was better off feeling the rumbles of Hanzo’s lungs than listening to his words, “or whatever script she’s been force-fed was purposefully changed.”

“Got it.” McCree responded, “That on the way to Athena?”

“As we speak.”

“Mr Tanake, Mr Gomez,” the tour guide called, waving her hands to grab their attention – as if she didn’t already have it – as they approached. “Please try and keep up, I’d hate for you to miss anything. Especially you, Mr Tanake.”

Preoccupied with a quiet, shiny video that played on a slim display screen mounted above the door, the rest of the tour group stood in a colourful cluster, muttering flatly to each other. Flashing a bright smile, the tour guide took advantage of their distraction.

She was a young, appealing woman, their tour guide, with warm brown skin and clever narrow eyes. Her hair was bleached a dish-watery blonde, pulled back tight into a stream lined ponytail that dragged her features back against her face like a sly cat. Pretty and broad shouldered, she cut a friendly but intimidating figure in her pale green uniform and perfect posture. If somewhat stiff in appearance, she only seemed like the perfect cover for a woman feeding incorrect information to innocent civilians willing to learn.

“I’d love to hear more about this paper you told me about.” She said, her accent a pleasant, melodic curl of _r_ ’s and _e_ ’s. “And I’d love even more to help you make it as in-depth as possible.”

Hanzo slipped into Hiroshi easily, grinning in a giddy sort of way and fidgeting with his fingers as he spoke.

Perhaps, in a kinder life, McCree thought, Hanzo would have worked in the theatre. God knows he had the face for it.

It was a sweet image, Hanzo traipsing the boards, or projected huge on cinema screens: the bold, handsome hero of the hour, or the strong, silent sideman who led not with words, but with actions. Swathed in the kind of fantastic costumes only theatre could provide, sashes of shiny crimson silk and deep back velour cloaks. Different sides to the man as vibrant as the spectrum of colour he bore on his broad back.

Were Hanzo to be an actor, McCree thought maybe he’d be a writer. Always fond of words, and the only art he could really get his head around.

Maybe Mateo and Hiroshi were real in some universe, writing and starring in plays, travelling to famous cities to tour their iconic monuments.

Or they were characters, battling through the most boring two hours of their lives, pretending to care about waves or whatever the hell it was that made electricity work.

“Well I’ve been fascinated with Latin American culture since I started learning Spanish in high school.” Hanzo explained, “The music and the food and the art – everything! When I met Mateo here,” McCree gave a curt wave, squinting his eyes in a smile that did not quite reach the rims of his fake glasses. “and he found out how, well, let’s not say obsessed – “

“I’d say obsessed.” McCree interjected, grappling his voice into the Mexican accent that’d oiled his tongue since he started school with the folks who didn’t speak a god damn lick of decent Spanish. It was a little hard not to slur like the cowboy he was, but he just thought of his mama’s voice, crooning _Ahí Está la Luna_ into the tiny brown shell of his ear until he slept. “He practically begged me to take him on this trip.”

“Yes, well,” the shake on Hanzo’s voice was as fake as his nervous disposition, but it seemed to convince their guide, who smiled encouragingly as if Hanzo needed a motherly hand to help him finish a god damn sentence. “Mateo has been a great help giving me a personal view into what life in South and Central America is like. When he said he’d show me around Dorado I knew we just _had_ to come to Lumérico. Your work here is a such an iconic element of Mexico’s modern energy movement.”

“Why thank you!” the guide giggled, lacing her hands daintily in her lap. She shifted her gaze, lids dropping somewhat in a way that almost looked shifty, were McCree not averse in the language unwelcome _signals_. “And you, Mateo, was it? Are you from Dorado?”

Shaking his head, McCree offered their guide the kind of breathy chuckle he assumed a man like Mateo may have. It felt wrong not to laugh from the back of his gritty throat or the pit of his stomach, but ever since he’d been told in a bar years ago that he had the kind of laugh people never forget – which was the kind of comment people never understand, or at least, McCree hadn’t wrapped his head around those words yet – he’d started giving his undercover fellas the worst, most annoying giggles and guffaws he could muster.

He’d rather the original had the best of what was to offer.

“Spent plenty of my childhood here, but I’m mixed, was born up in the states.” McCree gestured with his thumb, pointing it over his shoulder as the guide nodded with understanding, “Travelled a lot with my parents when I was a kid. I’d say I’m from just about everywhere in Mexico.”

Laughing for just a little too long, the guide let her eyes wander to the jostling group of tourists who, now that their video was finished, were milling back and forth like lost seabirds, unsure of what to do with themselves. She brushed her skirt off, in more of a necessary gesture than a chore, as her uniform appeared to have never seen the likes of dirt since it popped out the factory and approached the group with a cursory smile.

“How interesting.” She said lowly over her shoulder, before addressing the group on which hall to take for the final room on their tour route.

McCree made to follow before Hanzo’s hand caught his elbow, tugging him back. He half expected another flurry of whispers, an avalanche of feedback from Athena that Hanzo would read off his comm like an automated message. Instead he was greeted by a sly grin, a raised eyebrow.

“…why you lookin’ at me like that?”

Barking a laugh, Hanzo swiped playfully at McCree’s chest, and overtook him, “No reason.”

 

 

Escaping Dorado’s endless green sprawl felt like divine intervention, as, upon exiting the giant beast of a building, McCree had half the mind to drop to his knees and praise whatever otherworldly being that he didn’t believe in for saving him from eternal boredom.

He settled, instead, for speed-walking as fast as he could before his stride became a jog away from Not Interesting Incorporated and following his nose as it guided him towards the heavenly scents of _lunch._ His stomach groaned, longing for even the tiniest morsel of a sandwich. It was not until McCree began mulling over where they could grab a decent meal that he realised Hanzo was having to run to keep up with him.

“Why -” Hanzo puffed, catching up and smacking McCree on the back as he did, “- Do your legs have to be so long, you ridiculous sasquatch of a man.”

“Not my fault you were hit with the average height stick,” McCree retorted, slowing to a halt. “I’m hungry as all hell, if I don’t get somethin’ in here I’m gonna wilt.”

Hanzo shot him an indignant look, that under-the-lash concoction of disapproval and disbelief. In his hands he held the Lumérico pamphlet and map, all neatly folded up and ready to be stowed in the pocket of his guitar case. Despite his slight jog, that sly simper remained on his face.

McCree was almost concerned.

“Athena got back to you yet? Winston?”

“Nothing at the moment,” Hanzo said, following McCree at a more sensible speed as they headed downtown, “Although I’ve been informed that Athena is processing the information. We should hear back by tonight.”

“Gotcha. Jeez, I _really_ need some lunch right about now.”

 

They pick up pastries at a small, orange bakery on their walk back to _Casa de la Cigarra_ , nibbling their way through their lunch as the sun hovered, slightly cooler now that the hour had passed, white above the rooftops.

With a full stomach and sore feet, McCree made a bee-line for the bed the moment they returned to their room. He kicked off his Oxfords, unbuttoned his shirt, and flopped unceremoniously into his pillows with a great sigh. Only somewhat aware of the sounds of Hanzo milling about in the bathroom, McCree let his eyes close naturally, lulled by the rushing sound of a tub being filled and a window being cracked open.

His lack of sleeping the previous night caught up on him. His chest steadied, arms relaxed, and he was greeted by a dull grey light leaking into the corners of his sight.

On Bastion’s rooftop garden, Gibraltar’s sun is obscured by a cluster of slate coloured clouds. There is no rain, but the air feels distinctly wet, and McCree’s skin is damp and cold where he sits in that battered old blue deckchair.

The concrete, where it is usually blanched by the sun and scuffed with many soldiers’ boots, is cracked, lumpy, bursting open at the seams at the will of many soft coloured flowers. They have elegant stalks, all reaching upward toward the sunless sky like bony green hands, their fingertips blooming with petals pink, purple, white.  Many yellow blobs of pollen and nectar glow at their centres, lighting the garden up despite the sun’s absence.

“Orchids.” A calm voice called out, and McCree peered over his shoulder to see Hanzo folding out a matching deckchair alongside him. “I was growing them inside. And somehow…” he gestured to the flowers, how they continued to split the roof and grow, rapidly, in dashing curls and spirals of pale colour. “At least they’re pretty.”

“I’m sure Bastion will like them.” McCree responded, folding his hands in his lap. In this dream - and for once he knew it was a dream, because Watchpoint: Gibraltar’s roof looked out over a stunning blue vista of endless sky and sea, not a stretching, foggy whiteness, only blotted somewhat by the purples of expanding orchids along its horizon – he was his own age once more, but dressed in the clothes of a man much older. Or, perhaps, more a retired gentleman, the kind of man who was offered such privileges as settling down and wearing scratchy linen shirt and thick woolly sweaters and work-worn blue jeans with narrow rips in the knees.

There was soil caked between the v’s of his fingers and McCree thought perhaps the flowers outside were his doing. Maybe he’d lifted a flowering pot from Hanzo’s dorm, repotted it out here, watered it, let it grow until it was a flourishing fuchsia network.

“Oh, these,” Hanzo chuckled, “These aren’t for Bastion.”

“Who are they for?”

“Me, I’d assumed. Or for you. One of us.”

If he focused on the furthest horizon, McCree could see that imaginary line itself purpling, as though blushing deeply at listening in on this conversation.

“How do you know that?”

“We all sow some kind of seeds, McCree.” Hanzo rose from his chair suddenly, looking down at McCree as he did, “The seeds either of us were bound to sow for each other were orchids.”

“Wh – What does that mean?”

Laughing, this version of Hanzo – the one that lived in McCree’s head and made his chest yawn – clasped his own hands together, they too, covered in soil, and closed his eyes.

“I think it’s for the best you wake up, McCree.”

Poetically, perhaps you would say, McCree did wake up. Jarringly, a little squinty eyed, and not quite long rested enough. His face squashed in a pillow and his cheek wet with his own drool, he could see spirals of pearly steam billowing from the bathroom door, open just so. The scent of jasmine poured out, overwhelming, sweet, the smell of Hanzo’s hair when McCree was sat just close enough to breathe it in.

McCree pulled his holo-pad out then, not wanting to sleep for fear of another obscure dream, and began scrolling through the articles he had saved, tired eyed in the blue light.

After all, it wasn’t like he’d be able to sleep well with the knowledge of the naked body that scrubbed itself clean just one room away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not feeling so great about the last quarter of this chapter but I promise.....next chapter.....it gets Gayer


End file.
